<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Smartest Idiot You Know by my_usual_lipstick</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699772">The Smartest Idiot You Know</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_usual_lipstick/pseuds/my_usual_lipstick'>my_usual_lipstick</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, F/M, Light Swearing, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Spencer Reid, Past Drug Addiction, Reader-Insert, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Spencer Reid Fluff, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, drugs and alcohol, if that does anything for you, reader works at a bookstore, set in DC not Quantico</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:46:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>92,815</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699772</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_usual_lipstick/pseuds/my_usual_lipstick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You stop at 4B and knock. You hear stumbling, a loud expletive, and then Spencer Reid is standing at his door wearing an apron. You bite back a laugh- given the clear distress on his face, it seems like he wouldn’t take it well.<br/>He ushers you in quickly and you smell the unmistakable scent of very burnt bacon. “Are you cooking pancetta on high heat?” you ask immediately.<br/>“Thank goodness you’re here,” he says.<br/>“What made you think you could start with carbonara?”<br/>“I have an IQ of 187.”<br/>“You have the common sense of a toddler presented with a box of matches.” </p><p>In which the reader realizes that while her upstairs neighbor Spencer Reid knows a great many things, he doesn't know how to cook.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>You In The Story Bro</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Herbal Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set after Season 5 Episode 16, because that's what episode I was up to when I started writing this. I have a few chapters done but might space them out so I can keep a consistent posting schedule, (a couple times a week, maybe?) though if there's any interest I can post more asap. This is my first fanfiction on here, so let me know what you think or if you have any suggestions!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You help out analyst Penelope Garcia when she's having a bad day, and two of her coworkers come to pick her up from your bookstore. One of them doesn't make a wonderful first impression.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>C.S. Lewis</b><b></b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Friday, about 5pm</b>
</p>
<p>There are a few types of customers that come through Folio. Four, to be exact. </p>
<p>The first are regulars, and whether they stop by sporadically or every week on the same day, you know them and at least one thing about them that you probably shouldn’t. Like Lenny, who comes in on Monday evenings, when almost no one else is there. He putters around browsing for nearly an hour, and ultimately buys whatever you recommend. </p>
<p>The second group consists of anyone who buys something and never returns, usually people who are here because it promises to be cute, a good look for them on the socials- they want to support a local business, maybe snap a couple photos of themselves among the carefully arranged shelves while doing so. That’s fine; you spend more than enough time making the shelves look effortlessly cluttered while still maintaining some form of order. Maybe this type of customer accidentally happened upon the shop and liked it, but it just didn’t embed itself enough in their memory for them to ever return.</p>
<p>Today, a woman walks in to get out of the rain, and the bell above the door announces her entrance. You think she is the third kind, people who are here because Folio has four walls and a roof, and you don’t expect that she’ll stay long, maybe just browse in a perfunctory manner and maybe make some small talk until it lightens up outside. You like her earrings. </p>
<p>You don’t at all mind this third kind of customer, despite Paul’s grumbling that they only take up space. But some folks just need a place to sit down, and that’s what the shitty coffee is for. It’s like the price of admission. You sometimes get high schoolers who never buy anything but a cup of the bitter liquid and then sit here for hours, just talking. Ten years ago, you would have done the same; bookstores were a cheap refuge from life outside where things move far too quickly and loudly, and you hear less chatter than in coffee shops. In here, with the books, it smells like a home. </p>
<p>You look up from your place behind the counter to see the woman coming towards you, looking agitated and soaking wet from the rain. She’s dressed eclectically, all bright colors and chunky jewelry and flowers in her orange hair. </p>
<p>“Good afternoon,” you say, closing your book. Up close, you can see that her mascara is running. </p>
<p>“Hi, hon.” The words come out more as a sigh that verges on tears.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“I, well, I dropped my phone and it fell into a sewer drain, if you can believe that. I still can’t. My car keys went with it. I’m a real butterfingers today, I guess. Do you maybe have a phone I could use?”</p>
<p>Her voice is uneven but pleasant, considering the fact that she seems to be having one of those uniquely terrible days where the world is against you. “Yeah, definitely. Shit, that sucks, I’m so sorry. The landline is down right now, but I’ve got my cell.”</p>
<p>“That would be perfect, sweetie. Thank you.”</p>
<p>You hand this woman your cell phone and stand up from the tall seat behind the counter. You keep a stash of your own tea bags in a desk drawer, along with some honey and large mugs. She looks like she needs something to warm her up, something about her makes you want to be a little charitable. </p>
<p>“My name is Penelope, by the way. Penelope Garcia.”</p>
<p>You tell her your name. “Nice to meet you, Penelope. Please, pull up a seat.”</p>
<p>She pulls up a tall chair from one of the tables to your little slice of the world, sitting directly across from you and the outdated cash register and the large desk where you’ve spent too many of your waking hours. You doubt there will be many customers today, so it’s not like she’s blocking anyone’s way.</p>
<p>She exhales then, it’s relief and exhaustion rolled up into one breath. “Thank you. I really can’t believe this. And I was having such a nice day up ‘til now.” </p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“Well, as nice as it gets when I’m working.”</p>
<p>“What do you do?”</p>
<p> “I’m a technical analyst. FBI,” she says, almost sheepishly.</p>
<p>You tense up a little, but say, “Wow, sounds heavy.”</p>
<p>You were a bartender once, back in college, and it doesn’t surprise you anymore that closing a bookstore isn’t so dissimilar from working the late shift. People are always willing to overshare if you catch them at the right moment and don’t seem to be prying, just expressing interest. At least this counter is way less sticky than a college bar. </p>
<p>“It’s <em> really </em> heavy most days, but this time… I don’t know. We got to see a bunch of kids reunited with their parents. Really warmed the cockles of my heart. I felt like we deserved cupcakes.”</p>
<p>“And the universe didn’t?”</p>
<p>She sighs again, recounts the story of balancing the box of baked goods and answering a call all while trying to get back in her car. The result: phone and keys down a storm drain, and ruined cupcakes. Then, the onslaught of rain. </p>
<p>The electric kettle makes a noise to tell you it’s done, so you fill one of the poorly made mugs and ask Penelope Garcia what she prefers. “I take you for an herbal tea girl- raspberry?” you ask, and she doesn’t say no. “But you got the bad guys?”</p>
<p>“They kind of got themselves, if you catch my drift. And we never really save everybody.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>You sit in silence for a moment while she warms up and uses a napkin to dab at her running makeup. You sip your tea - green, steeped just a moment too long so it’s a bit bitter, with extra honey to make up for this - and she seems to have forgotten that she’s borrowed your phone.</p>
<p>“Don’t you need to-”</p>
<p>“<em>Right</em>. Morgan must be worried. I don’t usually leave him hanging like this.”</p>
<p>You unlock your phone and she calls her friend. You give her some privacy by going back to your book. After hearing her greeting (“Hey, sugar, it’s me”) you assume this Morgan is a boyfriend. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m locked out of my car. Could you grab the spare set from my place? Oh, you’re a dear. Uh huh. Oh, yeah, I’m at a cute little place on Main, I think? Hang on, let me check-” she looks at you, and you push a bookmark across the counter to her with the name of the store. “It’s <em> Folio </em>. I’m sure the kid knows where it is... Well that’s a first. Alright, see ya soon. Thank you dearly, honeybun.” She hands you back your phone.</p>
<p>“Can I get you anything else?” you offer. You wish there was more food here, but there’s only a handful of almonds left over from your lunch and some whiskey in the bottom drawer that Paul keeps for the odd rainy day. You’re pretty sure you aren’t supposed to be able to get into that drawer - it’s locked - but you have some lockpicking skills from your sketchier days.</p>
<p>“Would it be possible to turn the heat up? I don’t want to be a bother, I’m just worried I might catch a cold.”</p>
<p>You shake your head. “Sorry, that’s up to the owner- it’s not like we have any really rare books or anything, but it wouldn’t be good for them. Hold on,” you say, and grab the blanket hanging from the back of your chair. “I run a little cold. This might help.”</p>
<p>She takes it gratefully and wraps it around her shoulders. “This is cute- a nice waffle stitch. And the handmade mugs? Are you crafty?”</p>
<p>You beam and start up a conversation about knitting, explaining that the mugs are made by some kids, as a thank-you gift for some volunteer work you do. Penelope Garcia, had she not mentioned it when she came in, does not strike you as someone who would work for the FBI. For one thing, the two of you get along. She’s funny and nice, and compliments your earrings after you express a love for hers. The guy coming to get her, Derek Morgan, is not, in fact, her boyfriend. She’s just this sweet to everybody. </p>
<p>“I can’t believe I didn’t think to call Kevin,” she says, her voice a mix of genuine surprise and bemusement. “But it’s not exactly like he can kick the door down to my place, is it?” </p>
<p>She warms up quickly between the tea and the blanket, and after her concerns about getting sick are set aside, she starts to worry about taking up too much of your time. “Should I buy something? I feel like I should buy something. Am I distracting you from something you’re supposed to be doing?”</p>
<p>You shake your head. “Really, don’t worry. It’s a slow day, you’re not keeping me from any work right now. I already got the shelving and dusting done for today. Now I’m just waiting until 7 to close up.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t exactly a hub of activity, is it? I’m sorry, is that rude to say about a place, or-”</p>
<p>You laugh. “No, you’re right. I’m glad I don’t own it. I’m kind of the only worker Paul can afford. Not a huge demand for our selection, but the place scrapes by. I end up with a lot of downtime. Doesn’t always feel like work, you know?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not,” she says, grinning anyways. “I really think I should buy something. How much for the tea?” You wave her request away. “I don’t suppose you have any of those romance novels they sell at airports, do you? Extra trashy?”</p>
<p>“Honestly, we have way too many of those. Let me show you.”</p>
<p>You point out to Penelope that the romances are divided into two sections, or rather, ratings, and are not overly surprised when she goes for the lower shelves and peruses the more... explicit works. </p>
<p>As you’re ringing up the three worn paperbacks and placing them in a paper bag for her, the bell at the door rings again. You look up as two men step into the store. A smile lights up Penelope’s face. “There are my knights in shining armor!”</p>
<p>In fact, since the rain has only picked up in the past half hour, both of these men are looking a little disheveled, the skinny one especially so. He reminds you strikingly of a cat you rescued in your youth and had to bathe because his fur was so matted and flea-infested. He isn’t short, but looks small compared to the other man, who fills the room and walks carefully between the shelves. From the way he carries himself, you know he’s a cop.</p>
<p> The man who must be Derek Morgan throws an arm around Penelope’s shoulders. “Hey, baby girl, sorry we’re late. Reid insisted on talking to your super instead of just letting me bust down the door.”</p>
<p>“I just thought you might appreciate not losing your security deposit,” the other man says. He might be the same height as Morgan, actually, but you can’t tell because his posture is atrocious. </p>
<p>“Well, you’re both here now. Thank you lovelies for saving the day yet again.” </p>
<p>For a moment you’re not quite sure that Penelope is going to introduce you to these two men who presumably work for the FBI. You wouldn’t mind if they left now.</p>
<p>But of course, since she’s one of the sweetest people to walk through the doors of your store, she says, “This young lady right here is my savior. My angel, meet Derek Morgan, the platonic love of my life, and Dr. Spencer Reid, resident genius of the agency.”</p>
<p>You try and sit up straight, suddenly conscious of the stain on your cardigan. Derek moves to shake your hand, and Spencer does no such thing.</p>
<p>“Hi, welcome to Folio.” </p>
<p>“I’ve never been here,” Spencer says, almost accusingly. “Is it new?” You shake your head, and Derek chuckles.</p>
<p>“The opposite. Really, really old.”</p>
<p>“Reid knows every bookstore in the country, pretty much.”</p>
<p>“I know places in the area that sell technical stuff,” he corrects. </p>
<p>You run her card and hand Penelope her bag of smut. “Well, we don’t really have textbooks or a ton of recent stuff. Our stock is almost all used books. That might be why.” The place also isn’t listed in phone books like a lot of businesses. </p>
<p>You have a suspicion that Paul keeps his store running through not-exactly-legal means, but if it keeps you in a job, you don’t ask questions. He likes that about you. Still, you’re glad that his fourth kind of customer, the kind that never buys anything from upstairs and just heads straight for the basement, won’t be coming by today. Paul isn’t here. They never come by the store if he isn’t here.</p>
<p>“Why are you called Folio, then? The name seems to imply a more practical collection.”</p>
<p>“What makes it impractical?” you ask defensively. “Anyways, I associate the word with fiction collections, like the First Folio.”</p>
<p>“You would, you work here. Do you actually sell any folios? Manuscripts?”</p>
<p>“Well, no.”</p>
<p>He opens his mouth, looking as though he’s about to continue further, and Derek elbows him. “Reid, don’t bother the lady. I’m sure she doesn’t get paid enough to put up with all your questions.”</p>
<p>Your hand curls around the cover of your book, as if you’re going to open it and start reading, and wonder if you should say anything else. It seems like they should be leaving now, right? </p>
<p>“Do you sell that coffee?” Derek asks, gesturing to the pot next to your electric kettle. </p>
<p>You nod. “Unfortunately.”</p>
<p>He buys two cups, handing one to Spencer, and both of them wince at the taste. Penelope hands you your blanket back and it seems like they’re heading out, but really she’s just pulling Derek over to check out the fiction. </p>
<p>Spencer glances at your book, <em> Dandelion Wine</em>. “Ray Bradbury. ‘A good night sleep, or a ten minute bawl, or a pint of chocolate ice cream, or all three together, is good medicine.’”</p>
<p>“Oh, so you do know some fiction.” You try to keep your tone light, but there’s an edge to it. </p>
<p>His cheeks flush a bit. “I didn’t say I don’t read any fiction. I just think the name of this store isn’t as relevant as it could be. It’s not like the collection here is very sophisticated.”</p>
<p>You bristle at that but don’t press the issue, instead choosing to finish your tea as you read and avoid eye contact. You’re of the opinion that <em> you </em> can talk shit about this place as much as you want, but he just walked in. Customers should at least buy something if they’re going to be a little rude. </p>
<p>He sips at his coffee and doesn’t try to make any more conversation, but is clearly uncomfortable as he shifts his weight and fiddles with his messenger bag. He clearly hates the taste of black coffee, but doesn’t ask you for any cream or sugar. You don’t offer him any.</p>
<p>Derek and Penelope are playfully bickering and have made their way to the mystery section. She seems to be in the process of trying to convince him to buy a book, for which you’re grateful. </p>
<p>“I, uh, didn’t mean to offend you,” he says. You finally look up. His expression is earnest. With his hair still damp from the cold rain outside, you feel a little pity for him despite his pretentiousness. </p>
<p>You’re looking for a response when Derek walks up with his final selection, and you ring him up. </p>
<p>“Thanks for keeping our girl happy on a rainy day,” Derek says as they head out. Penelope leans over the counter to give you a kind of half-hug that would have felt awkward if she wasn’t, well, her. </p>
<p>Spencer Reid gives you a stiff wave that doesn’t quite exceed the height of his waist and an embarrassed half-smile. And then the tall FBI agents and the offbeat technical analyst leave your place of business, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Rum and Coke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You get a drunk-dial from a new friend and wind out at a bar. Contains: alcohol, brief mention of marijuana</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“There's not a word yet, for old friends who've just met.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>Jim Henson</b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>The same Friday, around 9pm</b>
</p><p>A couple hours after locking up the store, you’re back at home in your apartment, wholly content with your day. You’ve cooked yourself a decent meal that utilized the vegetables in your fridge that were on the verge of spoiling, put on the largest t-shirt you own, and now that the kitchen has been cleaned up the only decision left to make in your day is to choose a movie and exactly how much popcorn to eat. You rarely make plans on nights when you close the store. </p><p>Your phone rings from its place on the coffee table in front of you. You don’t recognize the number so you don’t answer, letting it buzz while you flip through Netflix. Nothing really catches your eye. A couple minutes later when you settle on a movie and get up to check your phone, there’s a voicemail.</p><p>It plays, and you expect the usual plea from the Red Cross to continue donating blood, or someone trying to sell you insurance for a car you don’t own. Instead, you hear music thumping in the background and a high-pitched female shriek. </p><p>“Hey girl! This is Penelope! You know, from earlier? I want to thank you for earlier! What are you up to tonight? I’m using Derek’s phone and he wants it back, so I hope you get this soon.” You think you hear Derek Morgan’s deep voice saying something in the background, but it’s too muffled for you to be sure. “Some of us are out at a bar, and it’s a little empty. Hotch and JJ each have their kids and, while those little buggers are adorable, they can’t get into bars. Rossi didn’t want to feel old.” She giggles. These names mean nothing to you, but her enthusiasm is winning. “You should come by! Check out our sweet moves.” </p><p>Then her voice drops to an exaggerated whisper. “Honestly, I think Reid is a little bothered that he said something to upset ‘ya. Come and accept his apology?” You’re definitely not imagining the booming laughter from Derek on the other end. Penelope gives the name of the bar, and it’s a place nearby. You’ve been there before. You check the time- it’s nearly nine. It wouldn’t take long to put on a little makeup and walk over, and the night still smells like rain, which really sweetens the pot. Plus, you don’t work until the afternoon tomorrow, so a late night wouldn’t kill you.</p><p>You’re still debating going to meet up with a group of FBI agents when you get a text, from the same number: <em> let me buy u a drink. u didn’t let me pay for the tea!!! :-) </em></p><p><em>Well, it’s not like I’m the one doing anything illegal at the moment,</em> you think. Then you remember the small jar of weed stashed at the back of your sock drawer, and amend that to <em>nothing the FBI would care about, at least. </em>Paul doesn’t like cops in the store, but it’s not like he can control what you do on your own time.  </p><p>You throw on clothes that aren’t, you know, pajamas, and try to fix your hair. Does it look like you’re trying too hard? Pieces of it stick out stubbornly. <em> Definitely not,</em> you decide.</p><p>On the walk over, you call a friend from grad school to let her know where you’re going. Without you having to ask, she knows to stay on the phone with you until you get there.</p><p>“Stay safe,” Sarah says. </p><p>“Always.”</p><p>“How are you doing?” she asks.</p><p>“Good,” you respond. </p><p>“You seem… better.”</p><p>“I am.” You sound believable because it’s true. Turns out your crushingly low spirits of a couple years ago stemmed from being buried under a million tasks you had no interest in participating in, and now that you have your own time, you feel contented most days.</p><p>“And you’ll tell me about any mischief you get up to, alright? Shenanigans, and the like?” You can practically picture her wiggling her eyebrows; she was always a little more adventurous than you.</p><p>“Give me a break, it’s just a couple drinks. I doubt we’ll get up to anything fun- they’re a bunch of FBI agents.”</p><p>Sarah squeals, “<em> What? </em> I can’t believe you’re out there becoming friends with the frickin’ FBI.”</p><p>“Yeah, who would have guessed I’d meet some of them here in D.C.,” you respond, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What have you been up to lately?”</p><p>“Studying for the doctoral exam. Grading papers tonight. I <em> wish </em> I was out dancing with some sexy FBI agents.”</p><p>“I didn’t say they’re <em> sexy </em>.” </p><p>“Are they not?”</p><p>“I’m in sight of the bar, babe. Thanks for being here. Gotta go. Love you.”</p><p>“I’m going to assume they’re sexy until you tell me otherwise. Let me know when you’re home safe. If it’s too early, I’ll be pissed.” </p><p>You roll your eyes, blow a kiss into the phone, and hang up. </p><p>The bar isn’t too full or too loud, something you’re grateful for. Even though the lighting is dim, it isn’t hard to pick out Penelope and her orange hair as she dances with Derek. The two are laughing, and Penelope waves you over. </p><p>“Hello, my sweet,” she says. Her voice has a different quality to it that you attribute to alcohol, though it’s retained its bubbliness.</p><p>“Hey, you made it,” Derek says. He sounds a little surprised, but not unhappy.</p><p>“I live close by, and she made a good case.”</p><p>“What’s your poison?” Penelope asks, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the bar. You tell her your usual, and she orders for you, batting her eyes to get the bartender’s attention. </p><p>She insists on paying, despite your objections that “Really, it was only a cup of tea.” You get your drinks and walk across the room to the others, and on the way you find yourself saying, “You don’t have to do all this, Penelope. I was glad to have a little company at the shop today.”</p><p>“Look, in my line of work, it’s hard to find people who go out of their way to make things better for people. You did that for me today. This is a thank you. I’m just payin’ it forward.” </p><p>“It’s hard to believe I made that much of an impression on someone who does something so… important.”</p><p>“I started on one of those books today. Trust me, little lady, your line of work? <em> Very </em> important.”</p><p>You laugh, then, and feel yourself starting to relax, releasing a tension in your shoulders you didn’t even know you were holding onto. She leads you over to Spencer, who’s shed his tie from earlier but still looks too buttoned-up to be enjoying himself in a place where people have little regard for personal space; he keeps flinching whenever a stranger brushes against him. </p><p>He’s standing with a woman with blunt bangs and dark lipstick, and a man with thick black glasses and a bright floral shirt. Penelope introduces the man as her boyfriend, Kevin, and the woman as Agent Emily Prentiss.</p><p>You introduce yourself, she shakes your hand. She’s intimidatingly beautiful. “Good to meet you. Just call me Emily.” </p><p>“And you met Reid earlier,” Penelope says. Derek pats his friend on the back, and it looks like it knocks a little air out of him.</p><p>Spencer tightens his grip on his bottle. “Uh, yeah. We met. Hi.”</p><p>A new song comes on then, and Penelope’s eyes light up. She grabs both Derek and Kevin by the hand and pulls them onto the dance floor, and the latter doesn’t look thrilled. To call it a dance floor is generous, actually, it was just the space between tables, but they seemed to be making do. Emily follows, and you consider heading over with them. Penelope was right about one thing, you could really use a dance right now.</p><p>“Hey,” Spencer says before you’ve made a decision. “I wanted to more formally apologize about what I said earlier. I’ve been informed that my, uh, comments might have come across as impolite. I really didn’t mean to belittle your store.”</p><p>You take a sip of your rum and coke as you assess his apology; he seems to mean it, but then, you’ve heard a lot of sincere-sounding apologies that turned out to mean nothing at all. “I get it. You do really big stuff like catch murderers, and you’re introduced as a genius. If I were you, I’m not sure I would think too much about the cashier’s feelings.” </p><p>It’s too biting, you can tell before you see the hurt look on his face. Spencer starts to stumble over his words to argue with you, and as he does so you focus on the blush rising to his cheeks and the way he’s tapping out a quick rhythm on the beer bottle so that he has something to do with his hands. You misjudged him- he’s no pretentious smooth-talker, just a man who can’t quite read a room.</p><p>“Spencer?” </p><p>He looks at you. More accurately, he has to look down to really make eye contact with you- he’s much taller than you thought. He wants you to like him, you realize. And you’ve been trying to hold fewer grudges. </p><p>“Okay, I forgive you,” you say. “Everyone’s a little stupid sometimes. ‘The first thing you learn in life is you're a fool. The last thing you learn in life is you're the same fool.’”</p><p>Up until now he’s looked as though he’s recoiling at the people walking past him to get to the bar, but relaxes a bit now. “Bradbury.”</p><p>“Let’s start fresh.” You hold out your hand, and a moment passes; just as you’re about to withdraw it, he shakes it. His grip is more tentative than Emily’s, but he holds on for just a moment too long. </p><p>“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid,” he says, grinning a little. With some of his hair loose about his face and not tucked neatly behind his ears, he looks captivatingly disheveled and youthful at this moment.</p><p>“What do you do, Dr. Reid?” you ask.</p><p>“I’m a profiler for the FBI. And you?”</p><p>“I am a humble shopkeeper at a bookstore with an impractical selection.” </p><p>You finish your drink and watch his hands as he anxiously runs his fingers through his hair. He gets the loose strands you had been eyeing. “Hey, that’s no fair. You said starting fresh.” </p><p>“I thought you'd be better at figuring out when someone is lying to you, Doctor. But really, I won’t mention it again.”</p><p>“You don’t have to call me that,” he says. </p><p>Morgan brings over another round, dominating the conversation with ease. You both let him. He treats Spencer the way you’ve seen Sarah’s older brother act with her; a lot of teasing, but a lot of love behind it. And when he offers to buy you a third drink, you don’t object, though you notice Spencer has been working on the same beer for a while. He’s looking you up and down, but then, they all are, they’re profilers and you’re a stranger. <em> Maybe it’s a game for them, to figure out the boring people. </em> You try and set that thought aside. </p><p>“You like your job?” Derek asks as the two of you stand by the bar waiting on the drinks.  </p><p>“Yeah. It pays barely anything, but it’s work that I like, and gives me a lot of free time.”</p><p>“Been working there long?” </p><p>“Um, a year. Since I got my Master’s. I was a little overqualified for this but somehow underqualified for like, anything else.” While you’re pretty sure they can’t be drinking with you and performing any official investigation - these guys are by no means undercover, and besides, you’re pretty certain Paul isn’t doing anything so grand that it would be a matter of interest for the FBI - you’re still nervous. </p><p>“Is it what you’ve always wanted to do?” </p><p>You shrug. “Have you always wanted to do what you do?”</p><p>“No, not always, but I knew for a long time. What’s your dream?”</p><p>The idea of saying “writer” to a guy who’s probably shot people and been shot himself feels ludicrous, so you don’t. You’ll have to work on that. </p><p>“It’s what I want to do for now. Not sure if I could do it my whole life, but I have other things. I might go back to school for a PhD. For now I’ve got a nice schedule, hobbies, friends.” <em> A life</em>, you think, grateful not to be drowning in papers like you were just a couple years ago.</p><p>“A boyfriend? Girlfriend, maybe?” The man may be bald, but he has the confidence of a man with a full head of hair. Not that it’s undeserved.</p><p>You shake your head. “No one right now. You?” </p><p>“No- so, no one who would be mad if I asked you to dance?”</p><p>You look at Emily and Spencer, who aren’t far off. Spencer isn’t dancing so much as he is swaying side to side unevenly. Penelope and Kevin are across the bar, wrapped up together in what’s either an argument or passionate embrace. Maybe both.</p><p>“You know, before she clarified, I kind of thought-”</p><p>“Oh, me and Garcia get that sometimes. There’s nothing romantic there.”</p><p>You look at him dubiously. “Uh huh.”</p><p>“Really. We’re close, that’s all. We love each other. I’m not afraid to say it.”</p><p>“Okay, look, I love this song, but I just want to let you know up front I’m not looking for anything. I was promised some moves.”</p><p>“I hear that, loud and clear. I won’t disappoint.” </p><p>And you’ve known your fair share of men who don’t take no for an answer; this isn’t that. Derek Morgan is a social being with a stressful job. You are also a social being, with a significantly less stressful job, but as Sarah likes to remind you, just because someone’s got it worse doesn’t mean you can’t be stressed too. You’ve got loans, a boss doing shady things with strong-smelling glue in the basement of your place of business, and rent due in a few weeks. So you dance. Let go of it for a couple minutes, make a new friend.</p><p>It’s not like you never get out of the house. Hell, you were at this very bar just a couple days ago on a begrudging double date. It’s just that you’re not sure you’ve ever been out with a group of people you know so little about. It’s refreshing, the idea that no one knows you. </p><p>You could be anyone, within reason. They know you as kind, just a girl in a bookstore who made their friend tea on a day with a lot of ups and downs. Someone who dances with strangers. And, putting aside whatever skeevy business Paul is up to that they may or may not be interested in if they knew about it, you feel safe with them.</p><p>Derek is tall and <em> really </em> muscular, like he could pick you up without much effort. Not really your type, but mainly because you’ve come to associate burly and smooth-talking with assholes. He doesn’t invade your personal space, just takes you by the hand and, in a few moments, your waist. He’s gentle, and you like that in a man. Then the song ends and you thank him.</p><p>When you return to the group, they’re tucked into a booth, debating which ABBA song is the best. Penelope and Emily are arguing for their personal favorites, which are “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” and “Does Your Mother Know”, respectively. Spencer’s claiming that objectively, looking at the most-played song (“Dancing Queen”) is the most practical way to settle it. It’s comforting to hear them talk about something other than work, a topic which you worried might make you feel excluded, and also made you concerned for their sake. It can’t be good to only think about serial killers every waking hour of your day. </p><p>They make room for you and Derek. You’re pressed next to Spencer and across from Kevin, who is trying to request that the Broadway renditions of the songs from <em> Mamma Mia! </em>be allowed for consideration. </p><p>The conversation ebbs and flows with each round of drinks; you’re enjoying yourself, and then it feels very late very fast in the same way that you don’t notice how thirsty you are after a jog until you stop for a drink of water. </p><p>While you pipe up and join the conversation from time to time, you feel yourself growing tired and less engaged. Your social battery is running low, and you start to think of how best to excuse yourself. You’re dreading the walk home, which is bound to be a little chillier now than you’d originally dressed for. </p><p>Maybe he feels you starting to lean into him too much, or maybe he’s getting tired too. Either way, Spencer Reid says, “I’m gonna head back now, guys.”</p><p>This prompts a yawn from you. “Me too. I’m close by. Thanks for inviting me, Penelope, Derek. It was great meeting the rest of you guys.”</p><p>You get up so you and Spencer can leave the booth, and Garcia hugs you again. “Thanks for coming by, firecracker. I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”</p><p>You really can’t tell if she means it, but you hope she does. “You know where to find me.”</p><p>After saying your goodbyes to the rest, you blearily shuffle out of the building. Spencer isn’t far behind. The cold night air is refreshing. You can still smell the rain, and that perks you up enough that you know you won’t need to call a cab.</p><p>“Well, my apartment’s this way,” you say to Spencer, pointing in the general direction of your building and expecting that to be the extent of your goodbye. “I walked.”</p><p>“Alone?”</p><p>“Yeah.” You pat your purse. “I’ve got a taser and a cell phone. It’s no gun, but I stay safe.”</p><p>“What building are you in?”</p><p>“Nice try, Doctor Reid.”</p><p>“No, really, I’m that way too. And you don’t have to call me Doctor. Are you on Bennett Avenue?”</p><p>“I am, actually.” To your surprise, it turns out the two of you live in the same building, albeit different floors. </p><p>“Small world,” you say.</p><p>“Not really. Based on what your income probably is and the fact that I pay for one of the larger spaces in that building, and our proximity to FBI headquarters and… Folio... the odds aren’t too stacked against it.”</p><p>“Well, whatever the odds, I’m glad I’m not going home alone tonight,” you say, linking your arms. He looks a little startled. “Jeez. I’m kidding.” You start to pull your arm out of his, but he puts out a hand to stop you. </p><p> “You must be cold,” he mumbles by way of explanation. Then: “If you were using the phrase ‘going home alone’ in its traditional sense, I have to inform you that you probably had a shot with Morgan.”</p><p>Sneaking a peek at him, he’s looking straight ahead, a neutral expression on his face. “Oh? Does he try and pick up a lot of Penelope’s friends?”</p><p>He shrugs. “Sometimes. We don’t get a lot of downtime. Women are attracted to him.”</p><p>“You’re a profiler. Did you think I wanted to go home with Derek?”</p><p>He hesitates. “I’m good at analyzing interpersonal interactions, but not in cases where my own bias interferes.”</p><p>“Bias?”</p><p>He blushes. “It’s just that I know Morgan, and I know he suggested that Garcia call you to the bar earlier. Makes me… close to the situation. Provides me with an informed understanding, sure, but it also colors my view of the circumstances.”</p><p>You feel disappointed that Penelope hadn’t reached out independently, but hope that her interest in forming a friendship and seeing you again was real. “Well, I’m sure he was just being friendly. What else did you use your profiling skills for tonight?”</p><p>“I was listening to your conversation with Emily about poker. Really gave me some insight into how she thinks of the game. Maybe enough to beat her next time we play.” </p><p>“Any insights about me?” you ask, looking up at him, well aware that from his vantage point your dark eyes look wide and inviting. He blinks and responds quickly.</p><p>“You’re a good listener,” he says, still looking at you. Into you, it feels like. You don’t know what he sees there, but you want to.</p><p>“Is that all? Surprise me.”</p><p>“I think you’re protective of the things you care about. That’s based on your immediate defensiveness at the bookstore earlier, at my callousness.”</p><p>“That’s an easy one, though. Everyone is like that.”</p><p>He shakes his head but continues.“There were two mugs with tea bags when we arrived, but your store only sells coffee in paper cups. So you don’t mind making space for others who seem like they need help. I surmised you lived nearby, based on your arrival time after Garcia left a message on your phone, but those are easy too. But you don’t know a damn thing about poker, do you?”</p><p>You laugh. “No, I don’t. How’d you know that?”</p><p>“Well, I noticed that in social settings, you think before you speak, but if you feel strongly about something you’re willing to interject. But you really let Emily go on for a while before saying anything in response to a question, and usually you countered with another question. And all your input was a variant of strategies she had already discussed. I think you must have studied something in college requiring critical thinking skills, but your math isn’t great, since you steered clear of that. Still, you managed to make it up as you went based on Emily’s explanations.”</p><p>“Not bad,” you say. </p><p>“What did you study in college?”</p><p>“English. And I have a Master’s in Literature.”</p><p>He nods, like this makes perfect sense. You suppose it does. </p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>He shrugs. “Oh, c’mon. Nothing? I feel like I’m an open book, so to speak.”</p><p>“And… your face is incredibly symmetrical.”</p><p>Your instinctive reply is to poke fun at him a little bit, but as you open your mouth to do so, you realize that this is Dr. Spencer Reid’s way of telling you he thinks you’re beautiful. Or, rather, science dictates that you’re beautiful. </p><p>“I think you’re symmetrical too,” you say softly. </p><p>So you reach out and touch his hair. It feels natural because you’re sleepy and walking arm in arm with a beautiful man on a dim street that smells like rain. At first, you just mean to tuck one pesky strand behind his ear, but find yourself... distracted. Blame it on the rum. You wind one of his wavy locks around your finger.</p><p>You don’t regret this right away. In fact, at first it feels delightful and easy, to run your fingers through his loose curls. It’s as though a kind of electricity passes through him to you, waking you up, making you want to trace the length of his neck, too. Then his breath hitches, a visible wisp in the cold night air, and you look from his neck up into his face. You can’t tell if his expression is that of someone who’s been unsettled by an acquaintance (you can hardly call yourselves strangers now that you’ve had a formal introduction) or simple surprise. You drop your hand, feeling foolish. Neither of you say anything. </p><p>The two of you reach your apartment building a moment later and he carefully unlinks your arms to unlock the front door. Once inside you press the button to call the elevator. Now it feels like there is too much distance between you two, an awkwardness once you’ve separated, and you don’t know where to look. Neither of you know how to stand now, so it’s a relief to step into the empty elevator.</p><p>Your hands brush as he presses the button for the fourth floor and you press the third. You get your hand sanitizer out of your bag and offer him some, and of course he accepts. He tells you his estimate of just how many hands have probably touched that button today alone, based on activity he’s observed in the building over the years. </p><p>“You really just notice that kind of stuff?” Even as he nods, you feel silly. Of course he does. </p><p>“Any observations about me?” he asks, clearly not expecting anything.</p><p>You bite the inside of your cheek. How do you tell him you feel like you’ve been observing him, too closely, all night? “If I had to guess, I’d say you don’t like beer.”</p><p>“You’d be absolutely right.”</p><p>“Then why do you get it?”</p><p>“To pace myself. I’ve found that I don’t like operating on the lower level of understanding that comes with being drunk, and the low alcohol content in beer combined with the unpleasantness of the bubbles leads to me having just one drink on a night when the team has four or five.”</p><p>The doors open on your floor. You step out, reluctantly. “I feel like you could just… not drink?”</p><p>He shrugs. “With my size, one drink with about a four percent alcohol volume doesn’t do much, but holding the bottle makes me look less out of place in a social setting where alcohol is considered a prerequisite to being there at all. And I don’t mind being tipsy.”</p><p>You can’t wait to shower and sink into your bed, but you take a moment to get one last look at him as the doors close. </p><p>“Goodnight,” he says, hands back in his pockets.</p><p>“Thanks for taking me home, Dr. Reid.”</p><p>As the doors ding shut, you hear him call out, “Just Spencer is fine, really!”</p><p><em> Got back safe, </em> you text Sarah once you’ve locked your apartment door behind you.</p><p><em> Getting home l8! </em> is the response. Then: <em> ;) </em></p><p>
  <em> No shenanigans, but it was a nice time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Are the feds as boring as u thought? </em>
</p><p>Spencer’s voice ringing in your ears is only outlived by the lingering feeling of his hair between your fingers. <em> Definitely not. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know a lot of people tend to write Spencer as 100% sober when it comes to alcohol, but we see him with wine a couple times on the show. Planning on exploring this later. Let me know what you think! I'll upload the third chapter on Friday and then try to figure out a more consistent schedule. Thanks for checking it out &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Penne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The elevator in your building is down, and you find out Spencer has no idea how to cook. Contains: alcohol</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't think I've mentioned it yet, but this is set in D.C. because I looked into Quantico and it seems really boring and small-towny, and I feel like the setting changes pretty much nothing except I get to exist in a city that's operating normally because it's not Covid hours</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b><b>Virginia Woolf,</b> <b><em>A Room of One's Own</em></b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Monday</b>
</p><p>The next couple days pass quickly, because you’re busier than you’d anticipated. For one thing, whatever shady thing Paul is doing in the basement, it’s drawing more people than usual. Where before there were about five regulars you knew of who would come by on days when Paul is down in his workshop, now there are maybe a dozen. You consider telling him that some agents stopped by, and that he should keep a lower profile, but decide for plausible deniability’s sake to continue acting as though he’s running some kind of very profitable book club. </p><p>One of your neighbors who befriended you when she moved in a couple months ago, Carolyn, insists on taking you out Saturday night, and most of the time if you commit to plans with her it rapidly becomes a terrible double date that you somehow never see coming. This time is no different, and you are not getting any more graceful at informing your dates that you’re not really interested. Carolyn respects that you keep giving it a shot, and tells you to never lower your standards.</p><p>On Sunday, you get lunch with some friends from school, try and figure out where you all are in life and what you’re doing. It’s a relief that most of them are just as lost as you, caught in jobs that don’t challenge them and don’t pay enough.</p><p>You continue to read and write at work, grateful that at least your underpaying, non-challenging job gives you the time to do what you would have been doing in your free time anyways. Today, you find yourself in the groove of a story that had previously been giving you a little bit of trouble, and hardly notice Lenny when he comes into the store. He’s been browsing for a while before you begin your usual exchange.</p><p>It always goes like this:</p><p>“Looking for anything in particular, Len?” you ask.</p><p>“No, no, I’m sure I’ll find something.”</p><p>“Alright. I’m here.”</p><p>You’re scribbling furiously in your notebook when he finally approaches the counter to complete the pattern, palms upturned. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good mystery I might like, would you?” </p><p>The two of you head over to the mystery section as you ask questions about the specifics of what he’s looking for. Any aversion to gore? Modern or classic? Are you trying to solve as you go, or are you okay with a big twist you couldn’t possibly see coming? It helps that he’s known this store longer than you’ve been working here, and you’ve kind of got a catalogue of his tastes to rifle through. You send him off with a Kate Atkinson novel he hasn’t yet read.</p><p>So, your life is chugging along as usual. Apart from the fact that now it feels a little like you’re on the lookout for the tall genius who lives in your building (and really, who wouldn’t be) your life continues uninterrupted. Of course, you had realized that his work probably took all of the agents out of town for unknowable stretches of time, but you sometimes feel the tiniest pang of disappointment when the doors to your elevator open and you don’t see a lanky, vest-adorned frame. </p><p>You don’t close the store on today, instead heading out a little after five when Paul comes in a few minutes late. He’s an older man, of average height, with the mottled complexion that old alcoholics tend to have. You let him know that everything is all set for today, that you’ve placed the customary order for to-go cups and sugar for next week, and you both go over the formality of breaking down the register, but most people don’t use cash and you’ve never stolen money from this place. </p><p>It’s a little brisk for the end of March, and you wrap your flimsy jacket tightly around you and make the short walk to the grocery store on the way to your apartment. Your arms are only beginning to feel tired at the weight of the bags when you get into the building and see that the elevator is out of order. </p><p>You groan internally but promise yourself that when you make it to your floor, there will be a nice meal and a large glass of wine waiting for you. Some ice cream, too.</p><p>After a quick rotation of your neck to work out any kinks there from sitting at the counter for most of the day, you hoist your bags and take on the ascent. Around the second floor you get a little irritated that you pay this much for an apartment in D.C. and the elevator is broken, but ultimately decide that you prefer the OUT OF ORDER sign to having it break down with you inside. </p><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” you hear up ahead of you. You pause where you are on the stairwell, and when you listen more you can make out the faint gasping of someone who’s similarly winded by the climb.</p><p>There’s no way to go but up, and so you walk a few more steps until you come around the bend of the staircase and are face to face with Dr. Spencer Reid.</p><p>He’s doubled over against the railing and gripping his knee, dressed in a button-up shirt and a loosened tie. He sees you and his eyebrows go up. You notice that his eyes have a way of darting about, picking at clues you probably can’t guess at.</p><p>“Hi,” you say, setting down your bags.</p><p>“Elevator’s broken,” he says rather obviously.</p><p>“I would think a field agent should be able to take on a few flights of stairs.”</p><p>He laughs, or tries to, but it’s more of a wheezing exhale. “Hey, I was shot a couple months ago. I just stopped using the cane.” He slumps against the wall, as if he’s about to sit down and let you pass, but it feels rude to try and barrel right past him. But you’ve got ice cream in one of your bags that’s probably starting to melt by now.</p><p>You hoist up your grocery bags once again, and stop in front of him. “I’m just on the third floor,” you say.</p><p>“I remember.”</p><p>“Right. Of course you do. What I mean is, we could stop at my place and I could get you a glass of water or something. If you need a little help making it up the last couple flights.”</p><p>“You have groceries.”</p><p>“Do you think you could carry a bag and lean on me the rest of the way?” He seems to debate it for a moment before nodding, and you hand him the lightest bag you’ve got. “Don’t drop that one, it’s got eggs.”</p><p>Spencer has to stoop down quite a bit for you to really be carrying any of his weight, but the two of you manage slowly until you make it to the third floor. </p><p>You weren’t expecting company, but your small apartment isn’t very messy, just too revealing- through his eyes, you see the receipts you keep until the end of every month stuck to the fridge with a magnet, your laptop still open from when you realized you were running late for work this morning, your coffee mug dirty in the sink. The kind of plants that only need to be watered every few weeks. What does he think of the laughably terrible painting (courtesy of Sarah, an inside joke) hung up in the living room? </p><p>He takes a seat on a barstool near the kitchen counter, and you unpack your groceries. You can feel his eyes on you, probably picking apart the way your fridge is organized. You close the door a little too quickly, then wonder why his close inspection bothers you.</p><p>“Can I get you a glass of water?” </p><p>“That’d be great, thanks.” </p><p>You watch his warm brown eyes flit around your kitchen. You wonder what he can infer about you based on your spice rack. “Would some ibuprofen help? Maybe an ice pack?”</p><p>Spencer shakes his head. “I just need a second to rest, then I’ll be out of your hair.”</p><p>“I don’t mind,” you find yourself saying. “I was going to cook a big meal anyways, if you want to join me for some dinner.” You get the twist top of white wine out of its place in the fridge and pour yourself a glass, offer him some. He accepts after he finishes his water.</p><p>“You’re vegetarian, right?”</p><p>“Are you ever off the clock?”</p><p>He shrugs. “It’s not a difficult deduction. It just stands to reason that a meat-eater would have picked up something to cook for dinner. You got a lot of stuff from this one trip to the store, but you’re a single woman who lives alone, not cooking for a large number of people, so a lot of it is canned or dry goods, none of which contain meat. Women are also more likely to be vegetarians than men, maybe because a lot of research indicates that women are generally more empathetic.”</p><p>You raise an eyebrow. “Single?” </p><p>He gives a short laugh and suddenly can’t look at you. “Well, yeah. The perishables you bought - milk, eggs, fresh vegetables- are a lot smaller in number because it’s only you eating them. Also, Derek told me.”</p><p>You file that away for later inspection, and take a large pan from where it hangs on the wall. “So, how do you feel about tomatoes?”'</p><p>Spencer Reid watching you cook is a uniquely disarming experience; he keeps telling you about how tomatoes aren’t actually native to Italy, weren’t even grown there until the fifteenth or sixteenth century, and how thyme was used in mummification of ancient Egyptians. You let him talk at length about whatever comes to mind, and eventually he stops himself. It takes a while, though- you’re done with almost all your prep work by then.</p><p>You start making the sauce, and suddenly he’s barraging you with questions. You don’t really mind as much as you pretend to- you’re enjoying his company. </p><p>“Are you adjusting the recipe for two people?”</p><p>“No, I always make enough for two, usually save the leftovers for lunch.”</p><p>“Well, how much cream do you use? Is there a ratio you’re going by?”</p><p>He seems appalled to hear that, no, you just wing it and go by taste and prior experience, and starts to object when you freehand the splash of vodka and shake spices into the sauce with seemingly no regard to proportion or measurements. </p><p>“Stop interrogating me and make yourself useful,” you tell him, placing a cheese grater and hunk of parmesan on the counter in front of him. He sets to his task with an endearing focus. Your kitchen is quiet for a minute, smelling strongly of tomato and crushed red pepper.</p><p>“Are you sure you don't have a recipe you should be following?” Spencer asks after a few minutes of peace. You turn down the burner, dip the wooden spoon into the sauce, and blow on it gently. </p><p>You hold it up to his mouth, trying to focus more on the steam rising from the spoon than the way his lips part a little in surprise. “Just try it, Spencer. Then get upset about my cooking if you want.”</p><p>He looks uncertain, maybe thinking about germs, then takes the spoon to taste it. “<em>Mmm.</em> Wow, I’ll shut up then.” You feel his hand brush against yours when he returns it, steady and warm. You turn back to the cooking, strain the pasta and mix it into the pan with some of the starchy water. You portion it into two bowls, adding a pinch of the cheese. He heaps a lot of the parmesan he’s grated onto his bowl, then looks at you guiltily. You laugh and let him sprinkle on the rest. </p><p>He was right, you don’t often do much cooking for someone other than yourself. You prize your own space above a lot of other things; you tend to go over to Carolyn’s rather than invite her over (though that doesn’t stop her from barging in every now and then and raiding your fridge), and if you’re meeting up with a group of people, a restaurant is just less hassle. This place is entirely your own, and that’s valuable. Maybe that's why you didn’t mind him analyzing you after the bar the other night, but having him here feels nerve-wracking. </p><p>But you have to admit that sitting down to the dining room table with someone else and sharing a meal feels wonderful in a casual but still precious way.</p><p>“Are you one of those guys that lives off of takeout?”</p><p>He nods, taking another bite. Sheepishly, he admits, “Yeah, that and room service. I was planning on ordering pizza tonight. This is better.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>He notices your bookshelf over in the living room. You’ve run out of space on it long ago, and resorted to stacking books on top of it and leaving what you’ve read recently on the coffee table. How does this look to him? Disorganized, or broke? Both?</p><p> You speak to try and cut off whatever he’s thinking. “I’m sorry you got shot. I didn’t mean to like… make fun of you back there on the stairs. How’d it happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”</p><p>“I took a bullet that was meant for somebody else. I jumped in front of it.” Then he shrugs, in an <em> it happens </em> kind of way. A laugh escapes your lips. “What?” he asks.</p><p>“Sorry. That’s really brave.” There’s so much cheese on his food that there are strings connecting the food on his fork to the pasta still in the bowl. He doesn’t realize that there’s a dot of sauce smudged just below his lip. </p><p>“I don’t look brave, do I?” he asks, a little wryly, and you get the sense that it’s a question he doesn’t expect an answer to. So you lean in.</p><p>“Just because I didn’t take you for jump-in-front-of-a-bullet kind of brave doesn’t mean anything. I thought you were only, you know, solve-heinous-murders brave. I’m still gathering new information.” </p><p>You slowly wipe away the vodka sauce on his face, grazing his lower lip with your thumb, and observe what this does to him. His breath, rather than speeding up, slows down. You like the way his eyes widen and blood rushes to his cheeks, but force yourself to remove your hand and take your bowl, now empty, over to the sink. </p><p>“Can I get you anything else?” you call from the kitchen. You rarely blush, but feel your face turning red. You try and blame it on the wine.</p><p>“No, I’m- uh, no thank you,” you hear, his voice growing closer. “Let me wash up.”</p><p>“Don’t be silly, you’re a guest-” </p><p>“It’s the least I can do. This is the first home-cooked meal I’ve had in a long time.”</p><p>A glimpse at his watch tells you that he’s been here for nearly an hour. “You’re the first company I’ve had while I cooked in a while. I didn’t even realize I was missing it.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“In college, you know, you’re surrounded by people all the time. I had a lot of roommates. Sometimes I used to feel like throwing a meal together and sitting down with them was one of the only things keeping me sane. And now, it’s not like I don’t have a life or anybody I care for, I do. Sometimes I make food for Lyn, but she never helps out. I just forgot how nice this can be.”</p><p>He makes a <em> hmm </em> noise. “I wish I could relate more, but I received my first undergraduate degree when I was sixteen, so I was still living with my mother. And I’m an awful cook. I don’t know if I’ve even turned on the stove at my place.”</p><p>“<em>What? </em>” </p><p>“Yeah, I graduated high school when I was twelve. I’ve got three PhDs and an eidetic memory.” </p><p>“No, dummy, not that. All those degrees, and you still don’t know how to cook?” </p><p>“Nope,” he says, reaching over you for the dirty pan. He seems pleased by your reaction, and you can’t understand why. </p><p>“That’s, like, a basic life skill.”</p><p>“I can order food. Turn on an oven and put a frozen pizza in.”</p><p>You sigh overdramatically, managing to tear your eyes away from his hands, large and stronger than you would expect, doing the delicate task of washing your silverware. “Fine. I’ll do it.”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Teach you. It’ll be good for my ego, teaching a dumb genius like you.”</p><p>“I just don’t see why that’s necessary.”</p><p>And this is how you spend the next couple of hours- not teaching him any cooking skills, of course, but explaining why it’s good for the soul for a person to make their own meals now and then. </p><p>He tries to derail you by getting into a philosophical discussion of the soul, but you hold true to your belief that the action of making food and eating it in shared company is more nourishing than picking up the phone and ordering takeout. He counters with an argument about supporting local businesses, to which you say, “What, you’ve never heard of a farmer’s market, Doctor?”, and he says “There’s no need to call me Doctor, Chef.” He seems to grow a little more at ease with you, and you feel yourself becoming less nervous about whatever he may observe in your apartment. He’s got a way of gesticulating wildly with his hands without disrupting the stillness of the rest of him that you find oddly captivating, as if he’s tempering his excitement for some reason.</p><p>Still, if, over the course of this long and involved conversation you bustle around your kitchen and begin to bake cupcakes so that you don’t make eye contact with him for too long... Well, that’s your business. And they come out smelling amazing, if a little deformed.  </p><p>“See, baking, you can’t mess with it. It’s not intuitive in the slightest. You need the recipe, the science that backs it up.”</p><p>“Frost your damn cupcake, Spencer.”</p><p>The two of you have finished most of the wine bottle by the time he realizes he needs to head out. Both of you are surprised by the time- not late, by any means, but longer than either of you had anticipated when you offered him a glass of water and someone to lean on.</p><p>“I should head home. Thanks for dinner.”</p><p>“Anytime,” you say, surprised at the meaning you impart onto the word. You hand him a tupperware jam-packed with cupcakes.</p><p>“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”</p><p>“Then deliver them to Penelope for me. She’ll appreciate them.”</p><p>He smiles, abashed. “I might have one.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought. Do you need any help with the stairs? Sorry I can’t offer you a cane. I’m twenty four, not sixty.”</p><p>He chuckles. “I think I have the strength to get up there on my own. I’ll have Garcia call you to say thanks.” </p><p>Spencer limps out your front door before you can give him your number. Well, he knows where you live. And you’re sure if he wanted it badly enough, then Penelope Garcia could find it somewhere.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Lattes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You get a couple visitors at work on some chilly days :-)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“I like my coffee with cream and my literature with optimism.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>Abigail Reynolds, </b> <b> <em>Pemberley by the Sea</em> </b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Wednesday </b>
</p><p>When Garcia stops by Folio two days after you cook penne alla vodka for Spencer, you’re glad to see her. </p><p>Nothing in particular has happened today to put you in this mood, except for all of the everyday human things that always tend to happen all at once, especially when a person is running late. Noticing that your favorite shoes are so worn that they’re becoming unglued at the toe, spilling your cereal all over the kitchen so that you lost precious minutes cleaning it up and didn’t have time for any breakfast, forgetting your hat and feeling your ears slowly go numb on your walk to the metro. </p><p>You’d think with how often Paul is late, you could find it in you to take fifteen minutes to pull yourself together, but something in you just doesn’t allow it. You call it punctuality. Sarah calls it anxiety. </p><p>The customary tinkling of the bell causes you to look up and you see her, a vision in hot pink holding two massive cups of coffee, and her presence is a spot of warmth on a cold and so far shitty day. She’d texted you a thank you the other day from her new phone, but it’s good to see her in person. Garcia hands one of the cups to you and you immediately wrap both hands around it, leeching its heat.</p><p>“Hey, sugar.”</p><p>“Hi, Penelope,” you say, beaming. “How the hell are you?”</p><p>“<em>Loved </em> the cupcakes you sent by with Reid. The little chocolate sprinkles? <em> Mwah</em>. Cupcakes on a bad day are always just a little better than on a good one.” She slides you a cup of coffee.</p><p>“I feel the same way about a good cup of coffee.” You take a long sip, and exhale deeply. The only reason you don’t feel anxious when Garcia comes into the store, despite the fact that Paul is currently in his workshop, is that she doesn’t look like a cop. She isn’t one, technically, just a “hired nerd", according to her.</p><p>“You like it?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure that you drank coffee, but then I asked Boy Wonder what his thoughts were and he said that you owned an espresso machine and milk frother. I made my own deductions from there. A big latte for my little lady.”</p><p>“That’s… both a little creepy and really sweet. Thanks.” You take another swig. “Is there anything I can help you with?”</p><p>“Actually, yes, <em> please</em>. I really ran through the books I picked up last week. Love your selection, you’ve got authors here I just can’t find in the big stores. The gals from work are too embarrassed to come in, but they’re reading what I got the other day as we speak.”</p><p>You find it both humorous and a little worrying that you’re now the FBI’s resident smut-peddler.</p><p>“Paul has me go to a lot of estate sales, actually, to buy trunks of books owned by people who have passed away. Stuff that was printed for a short run decades ago. Part of my job is sifting through what we buy in bulk, and I find that a lot of the times the most... austere old women have the raunchiest taste. The agents shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”</p><p>She giggles, and all her jewelry makes a gentle jangling noise as she does so. “Maybe it’s just because I work closely with death, but I really like the idea of someone else years and years from now going through all my knickknacks and thinking, ‘this biddy was <em> freaky’</em>.”</p><p>The two of you find humor in that, and this time when she buys her books, you give her the fifteen percent friends and family discount. Exchange a wink. She pulls up a chair and the two of you chit-chat for a few minutes more, about crafts and music and how her team has been away on a case the past few days. You think she would like Lyn, a lot, and resolve to try and make plans with the two of them sometime. </p><p>When her work phone rings she answers it with “Hi, sugarplum, you’ve reached Her Highness of all things digital,” and then has to leave immediately, in such a hurry that you feel especially grateful that she made the time to drop by and see you. </p><p>The heat of the coffee seeps into your bones, makes you feel a little more solid on one of those days when the world is too flimsy for you to walk steadily. Especially with your shoes falling apart.</p><p>You’ve only ever asked Paul one question about whatever side business it is that he’s running. That question was, “Is it hurting anyone?”, and since the answer was a resounding “of course not” that you examined carefully and truly believed, you never asked anything else. You still believe him, but you wonder if, maybe, the risk is getting to be too much. You wonder if anyone would believe you, should he get caught. You’ve worked here over a year. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Thursday</b>
</p><p>The next day, before you’re about to head out of work around one, Paul asks you if you can stay a little late, just an hour or so. He comes up from the basement smelling like old glue and red wine, says that he’ll throw in an extra twenty bucks for the afternoon in addition to your hourly pay. You don’t ask why, just settle back into your seat behind the cash register and pull out one of your notebooks. It’s the second one you’re writing in this month, filling up fast, and you’ve been on a roll lately. Maybe you should start submitting your work for publication again, see if you can bring in any more money that way. </p><p>The small bell jingles above the door. A lanky frame steps through wearing an expression of uncertainty. You throw a nervous glance towards the door that leads to the basement, then regret it. Microexpressions. </p><p>“Hi,” says Spencer. He waves, and you find it cute, the way that he’s still half-clutching his messenger bag as he does it. </p><p>You close your notebook quickly. “Two geniuses in as many days.”</p><p>“Garcia came through?”</p><p>“Yeah. Knowing my coffee order- a little creepy, don’t you think? <em> Kidding</em>,” you say as he reddens. </p><p>“Well, I just told her what I observed.” The fact that this means the two of them have talked about you, however briefly, at the agency, which gives you a little flutter in the pit of your stomach. Anxiety or something else, you choose not to investigate at the moment. “Turns out I was right, but I thought this would be a safer bet.” </p><p>He presents you with a single green tea bag, what you were drinking when he first came in.</p><p>“Are you able to turn that off ever? The profiling? The memory?” </p><p>He shakes his head, looking a little flustered. “Not completely. The intensity of it, I guess you might say, is heightened when I’m working a case and trying to analyze people, and it’s sort of unintentional the rest of the time. I can’t get rid of it entirely. Why? Does it bother you?”</p><p>“Bother isn’t the word. It just doesn’t seem exactly fair that you know so much about me just from looking and I don’t know as much about you.”</p><p>This clearly had not occurred to him. “Well, what do you want to know?” <em>And why would you? </em>is his implication.</p><p>“For starters, why are you here? Don’t you all have work to do, or are my tax dollars paying for you to take a long lunch?” </p><p>“We just got in from a case this morning. New Mexico. They’re two hours behind. If anything, you’re paying for an early lunch.” </p><p>It takes you a moment. “Spencer, are you making a joke?” </p><p>He grins. “Yes?” </p><p>You laugh as you pull out one of the mugs you keep in your desk drawer and pour him a hot cup of coffee from the pot, and hot water for your tea. He starts to object, but then you take out a few packets of sugar and slide them over to him. “You’re not the only one who can make an educated guess."</p><p>He sips his coffee as contentedly as he can (it truly is terrible) and browses, pulling volumes off the shelves in such incredible numbers that you almost wish you worked on commission. At one point, his eyes skim the pages of a book so fast that you wonder what he’s looking for, then realize he’s reading it. In the space between you opening your notebook again and rereading the last few sentences you wrote, he’s made his way through a few pages of <em> All the King's Men. </em> </p><p>“Spencer,” you call out to him. His head snaps up. “We’re not a library. I’m sure you could probably finish all of those in an afternoon, but we need to make money somehow.”</p><p>He selects a few volumes and you ring them up- interestingly enough, they’re mostly cookbooks. You nod approvingly, touched that he actually listened to you, and even more touched when one of them consists of vegetarian recipes. </p><p>“I’m planning on making something tonight a coworker recommended, and I might need a little help getting started,” he admits. </p><p>“Sure. You know where to find me.”</p><p>“Mind if I-” he gestures to the tall seat near your register that you haven’t moved since Garcia left. </p><p>“Oh- yeah, go ahead.”</p><p>Funny, you’ve shared a meal with this man in your own home, but him sitting such a short distance away from you while you try to continue writing makes you feel vulnerable and on display. Just knowing that he’s probably observed your shoulders tightening and your change in breathing makes you want to fidget more.</p><p>He flips through one of the cookbooks rapidly. You notice he stops on one page for a moment, asks “do you own a sous vide machine?” and then doesn’t seem to look at any of the words, as though he’s reading something else entirely.</p><p>“What are you doing?” you find yourself having to ask. Is he also having the type of day where nothing is tied down, and he might float right out of his seat if it weren’t for the mug in his hand?</p><p>“Reading.”</p><p>“Well, yes, genius. But I mean, when you stop reading, and go somewhere else. What are you thinking of then?”</p><p>His smile, which had made a lazy, sprawling appearance when you called him “genius”, pauses self-consciously. “I’m cross-referencing other texts. In my head.”</p><p>“Right, eidetic memory. Is that nice?”</p><p>He seems thrown by the question, maybe used to a different reaction. “Nice? Sometimes. Very convenient in my line of work. Sometimes it’s terrible.”</p><p>“So it’s like anything else.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>You shake your head, trying to gather your point. “I just mean, when I think about it, that question must be like someone asking me what it’s like to breathe. Is breathing nice? It’s just something I’ve done my whole life. I guess the only difference is that people can hold their breath.”</p><p>You know that he can’t read your mind, but he might as well be able to. It embarrasses you to think he can tell you believe you’ve just uttered the most stupid thing he’s ever heard. But his amber eyes are gentle and calm and he says, with a grin, “I’ve never thought of it like that. You’re not wrong. I don’t know anything else.” </p><p>“Do I get to ask you more questions? To even the score between us, since I can’t figure out everything about you from one look.”</p><p>“What do you want to know?” he repeats, and you don’t have an answer. <em> Everything </em> seems a tad overdramatic. What’s his favorite book? What kind of toll does his work take on him? If you leaned in, would he close the space between the two of you?</p><p>Then, the moment you’ve been dreading. The door leading down to the basement wheezes open, bringing the smell of glue with it, which is not in any way suspicious on its own. Paul emerges to let you know you can leave. “Sorry for keeping you late-” he starts, then stops. “Afternoon, young man.”</p><p>The wave Reid gives him is just as adorable as the first time you saw it, but you sit up a little straighter in your seat. Now, Paul does not innately come off as a sketchy dude. In fact, he’s really sweet, if perpetually late. He’s in his late sixties, hunched over from age, and probably towns over a dozen pairs of suspenders. In the winter, he tends to use an elegant cane, and he’s often expressed a very normal interest in your personal life and any friends who come through the store. But it wouldn’t be ideal for you to be seen looking so cozy with an FBI agent. Luckily, Spencer doesn’t look like one.</p><p>“No worries. Anything I should finish up before I go?” you ask brusquely.</p><p>“Who's this?” </p><p>“This is my friend Spencer, he lives in my apartment building. Spencer, Paul Winter. He owns the place.”</p><p>From the way Spencer gives your boss a friendly smile while keeping his hands planted firmly on the counter, you figure he’s good at avoiding handshakes. </p><p>Paul gets behind the counter and you wonder if Spencer can smell the faint traces of wine. “You kids get out and enjoy the day.”</p><p>“Definitely. See you tomorrow,” you say, and grab your jacket and tote. You see Spencer put his chair back at one of the tables, ready to go with you.</p><p>“Oh, no need to come by the store tomorrow. Take the day off.”</p><p>“Really?” you ask, confused. “I thought I was scheduled-”</p><p>“No need,” he repeats. “I’ll manage by myself. That alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, okay. Alright then. Still want me to close Saturday?”</p><p>“Yes, dear. See you then.”</p><p>“See you.”</p><p>Bracing yourself for the unusually cold day, you take Spencer’s arm on the way out the way that you did that night leaving the bar. </p><p>You do this unthinkingly, in the same way that you tend to gently mock him occasionally in conversation, but in the light of day, sober, it feels more intimate, and an unnatural choice. You let go of him one you’ve walked a few paces away from the shop, playing it as though you were just leading him out of the store.  </p><p>“Not as cold as I thought,” you murmur, though you know your ears will likely be numb by the time you reach the metro station. You pull up the hood of your jacket, but that leaves your neck exposed to the chill. </p><p>“Heading back home?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Any plans for the evening?”</p><p>“Volunteering at a library in a couple hours, but nothing crazy tonight. Are you heading back to work?” You had actually been meaning to catch up on some copyediting later tonight before you go to send a story you wrote last week to some literary magazines that had accepted your work back when you were in school. </p><p>“I need to finish up some paperwork at the office before I can put this case behind me.” There’s a far away look to him that you haven’t yet seen, like he’s not here with you, maybe back in New Mexico. You want to ask him about it, but you figure if he wants to share he’ll say something. </p><p>“Good luck cooking tonight,” you say. </p><p>He notices you shiver, then, and pulls his long purple scarf out from where it's nestled in his overcoat; you let him gently pull back the hood of your jacket and wrap the scarf around your exposed neck. It’s been warmed from his body heat, and smells amazing. Sweeter than you expected, and otherwise just like him.</p><p>“You called me your friend when your boss asked,” he mumbles, flipping your hood back up over your head. It gives you the feeling of being very safe and cocooned. </p><p>“Do you prefer to be introduced as Dr. Reid?”</p><p>“No, it was nice to meet someone outside of a professional context. To be introduced as a friend. I just- I don’t have many friends outside of work. Any, if I’m being honest.”</p><p>“I know you’re really busy,” you say, intentionally misunderstanding. His naked sincerity is making you awkward, and you wish you were doing better at telling him not to be embarrassed. “I just figured that it would be easy to see you now and then, since we're in the same building. Just give me a call. If you want.”</p><p>“I don’t have your number.”</p><p>“Right.” He knows where you work and where you live, but he hasn’t got your phone number. “For some reason I assumed you got it from Penelope.”</p><p>“She’s no stickler for the rules, but I think she knows it would be an invasion of privacy to run a background check on you.”</p><p>“No! Christ, no. I meant she got my number from Derek.” You shake your head. </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“‘Background check’,” you grumble. “Jeez, clock out, Spence.” He looks pleased, which really does confuse you. </p><p>He doesn’t have his phone on him right now, so you root around your cluttered bag for a pen, and the two of you stop walking so you can write your phone number on his forearm. Mentally, you take a picture of this scene; you don’t have an eidetic memory, but you don’t want to forget the heat of his skin and how he is a little ticklish. How people walking past observe you with a mix of annoyance and amusement. </p><p>“You’re volunteering at a library?” he prompts, as if to distract you with his proximity, his head bowed close to yours as you scrawl the last few digits carefully, not wanting to scratch his skin. His breath in your ear jumbles your thoughts for a minute.</p><p>“Yeah. I read to kids every week as part of an after-school program. Children’s books.”</p><p>“‘And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws’.” He probably sees any number of awful things in his line of work, but his tone is light enough.</p><p>“Yeah, only my voices are way better than that.”</p><p>“Prove it.”</p><p>The two of you try to outdo the other in your strangest, most exaggerated monster voice until you reach the metro station. When you reluctantly move to return his scarf, he won’t let you. </p><p>“I’ll get it from you later. Maybe I’ll call? Can I call you?”</p><p>“That’s what my phone is for,” you say, hoping you don’t sound too hopeful. You’re going to miss your train if you don’t head in now. “See you around.” You go in for a quick hug before you can think better of it, and he’s only just remembered that part of responding to a hug consists of wrapping his arms around you, too, when you have to pull away and head inside. </p><p>A short backwards glance shows you that he’s running a hand through his hair, mussing it, a smile stretching across his angular face. The wind makes him look pink and very delicate, like it might carry him away.</p><p>There is something stirring about making a new friend who wants you to be warm throughout the rest of your day, and is willing to take on a little bit of the chill in order to achieve this aim. This knowledge lends as much heat as the scarf as you enter the station with a ridiculous grin and a lightness to your step.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Carbonara</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An introduction to Carolyn Valdes, and Spencer Reid messes up a somewhat simple dish. Content: mention of alcohol, action that results in injury</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“Mistakes are the usual bridge between inexperience and wisdom.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>Phyllis Theroux</b></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>The same Thursday, about 7pm</b>
</p><p>When you reach the door of your apartment, you can hear Carolyn playing music through speakers next door, the bass bleeding into your own space. Last week the vibrations nearly knocked a bottle of olive oil off your counter, and you’re pretty sure people are starting to complain. You consider knocking on her door and asking her to turn it down, maybe calling her, but then decide you don’t mind. Not today. Today has been <em> good</em>. </p><p>You let the bass rumble through you, and find yourself moving a little to the beat as you remove your jacket. You’ve come to know and love Carolyn’s taste in music, which consists of mostly female-fronted punk bands. </p><p>You unwrap his scarf from your neck, trying your best not to smell it like a total nutcase (It smells great) and hang it up with your coat. There’s a quick, rapping knock on your door almost immediately.</p><p>Through the peephole there stands a tall, long-legged woman with short, spiky black hair and eyeliner that looks like it could draw blood, clad in a little black dress and massive corduroy jacket. Carolyn Valdes. </p><p>Opening the door allows her to barrel in, and the sound of music gets louder. Why she would leave her speakers going only to come over here, you’ll never know. </p><p>“Bitch, I have been trying to get a hold of you for <em> three days</em>.”</p><p>“Platforms off in my place, Lyn, you know the rules.” You don’t want her heels scuffing up the floors and ruining your chances of getting the deposit back someday.</p><p>She removes the shoes and immediately drops three inches in height, though still stands an easy five foot seven, and goes to your kitchen to find your vodka and mix herself a drink. “Okay, okay. Where have you <em> been?</em>”</p><p>“The usual- work, estate sales, the library. You’re exaggerating. Did you try calling? Hey- you need to refill that,” you say as she empties your ice cube tray.</p><p>She huffs and runs the tray under the sink and shoves it back into the freezer and you immediately regret asking. Now there’s water on the floor. “Okay, one, no I didn’t try calling you because I’m out of minutes for the month and you’re always, like, right here. And two-” (here she holds up a short black fingernail as she drinks her vodka cran) “<em>Who </em> was the guy leaving your place the other day?”</p><p>You play dumb. It fails. “Who?”</p><p>“Don’t act innocent, little miss. The tall nerd with the pretty eyes. Don’t look at me like that, I <em> know </em> you know- sweater vest and Converse? Left with cupcakes? Don’t think I didn’t see him looking all radiant when he left. Are you holding out on me?” She appears delighted at the thought.</p><p>“No, there’s nothing going on with me and Spencer,” you say honestly. “I met him at work, and he…” This might very well be a mistake. “He lives in the building. I was just helping him out when the elevator was down.”</p><p>“You’ve never made <em> me </em> cupcakes,” she pouts.</p><p>“Liar.”</p><p>“Okay, so you have. But I want whatever <em> else </em> you served him.”</p><p>You can feel your cheeks turning hot. “Lyn!”</p><p>She giggles. “<em>Spencer</em>.” She’s teasing, but the dreamy quality to her voice resonates with you. </p><p>“Spencer,” you agree.</p><p>“You know that man is adorable, right?”</p><p><em> I’m not blind. </em>“He visited me at work today. We’re friends.”</p><p>As if on cue, your phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number. “Is that him?”</p><p>“I- I dunno. Probably.” You try and sound as nonchalant as possible. </p><p>“Are you going to get it?”</p><p>“Uh, no? I mean, it’s a little loud.”</p><p>An exaggerated shrug later (you hardly want to answer the phone and deal with whatever faces she’s going to make at you, or god forbid the <em> noises </em>) you see the gleam in Carolyn’s eyes and you know what she’s about to do even before she squeals and jumps your kitchen counter, vodka cran be damned. </p><p><em> Now I really need to mop my floor </em>, you think, shrieking and turning away, doubling over and shielding the phone from her with your body. “Lyn! Stop!” </p><p>“Answer... your... phone… <em> oof-</em>” (Here, she’s winded by a swift elbow to the stomach.) “-or... I… will!”</p><p>You ultimately win, keeping it away long enough for the ringing to cease and are disappointed not to receive a voicemail. The two of you remain slumped over on the floor, giggling, as she continues to try and half heartedly paw it away from you. </p><p>Spending time with her provides you with a kind of childlike breathlessness that you had missed before she moved in here, something you hadn’t had much of in your time at school. It’s funny how Sarah Abraham knew a version of you who was almost like a zombie, and Carolyn knows you as someone who smiles and bakes, albeit badly.</p><p>A couple of minutes pass, and the phone buzzes with a text.</p><p> <em>Hi. Hope this isn’t a bad time. I’m attempting to make a carbonara. Not going great. If you’re free I could use some help if you don’t mind the smell of cooking meat. There’s a side salad in it for you. -Spencer </em></p><p>Then: <em> And a glass of red wine. -Spencer </em></p><p>You show Lyn, keeping a tight grip on your phone should she try and grab it and respond. She snickers.</p><p>“He keeps signing his name. Considerate, though.” She pinches your cheek. “A good boy. Are you gonna go?”</p><p>You’ve barely had a moment to yourself today- it’s been work, staying late at work, an hour where you grabbed lunch before heading to the library, and now Carolyn’s ambush. “Maybe I’ll just stop by and give him some pointers. Have the glass of wine and turn in early. I used to love carbonara,” you say wistfully.</p><p>She seems doubtful. “I don’t get it. Are you into him? Looking for a little bump and grind? Honestly, I can’t place you.”</p><p>“I-” your words catch in your throat. “I don’t know him that well yet. It just seems like he has a lot going on with work. Not sure if he has time for anything other than friendship. It’s fine. Being his friend is nice.”</p><p>“Okay, no, if you start making weird internal compromises now, you’re going to shoot down a good thing before it even exists. What’s this guy do?”</p><p>“He’s an FBI profiler with, like, a shitload of degrees.” </p><p>She gives a low whistle. If you can believe it, she works as a school nurse for a local high school. The kids are all half-terrified, half in love with her. “We haven’t known each other for very long, but in exchange for letting me come in and steal your alcohol, let me tell you- you’re too good for any of those losers from these dates. You should see where this goes.”</p><p>You’re touched. “If you knew they were losers, why do you keep setting me up?”</p><p>She twirls a piece of her short hair around her fingers and you watch as the overhead lights glint off of her many rings. “The girls I like don’t have as good of a taste in friends as I do. I just figured you would assume I was blind to men’s personalities. I took advantage of it.”</p><p>You turn your phone over in your hands. “I’m going to head up.”</p><p>Carolyn grabs your hand and the two of you hoist each other up from the floor. You grab Spencer’s scarf from where you hung it up, and slide into your slippers.</p><p>The elevator has been fixed, but you practically skip up to the fourth floor and realize you don’t know which apartment is his. It isn’t hard to figure out- you follow the smell of smoke.</p><p>You stop at 4B and knock. You hear stumbling, a loud expletive, and then Spencer Reid is standing at his door wearing an apron. You bite back a laugh- given the clear distress on his face, it seems like he wouldn’t take it well.</p><p>He ushers you in quickly and you smell the unmistakable scent of <em> very </em> burnt bacon. “Are you cooking pancetta on high heat?” you ask immediately.</p><p>“Thank goodness you’re here,” he says. </p><p>“What made you think you could start with carbonara?”</p><p>“I have an IQ of 187.”</p><p>“You have the common sense of a toddler presented with a box of matches.” You shove past him to check out the kitchen.</p><p>He lives on the fourth floor of the same apartment building as you, and <em> yes </em> he’s implied that he pays more in rent, but you never thought his place would dwarf yours like this. His dining room table is covered in various newspapers, but there’s still plenty of empty space on it.</p><p>You feel a new wave of embarrassment wash over you at the thought of your overwhelmed bookshelf when you see his wall-to-wall collection. This, coupled with the fact that you’re still scraping together next month’s rent, gives you a sinking feeling in your gut that you choose not to examine.</p><p>His kitchen is both a wonderful sight and appallingly underused. A large pan rests on the front right burner, and you immediately step forward to turn down the flame. You assess the situation. </p><p>He’s got all the right appliances and ingredients, but his countertop really does look like a toddler tried to make this meal. </p><p>“Where are the eggs?” you ask. He points to the fridge. </p><p>“I’m going based on memory from what my coworker told me. He gave pretty detailed instructions.”</p><p>His fridge is understocked, consisting mainly of condiments, leftover takeout (some of which looks more like a science experiment than anything edible) and ingredients he clearly just purchased today. You don’t see any vegetables apart from a few bell peppers. </p><p>“The thing about carbonara is that the eggs really need to be room temperature,” you say. “I’m sure there’s some sciencey reason. It just makes for a better sauce, is all I know.”</p><p>“That makes a lot of sense, now that I think about it. The latent heat of eggs is 275 kilojoules per kilogram- I’m sure I could write up an equation so they don’t cook too quickly. I’ll need to pick up a food thermometer.” </p><p>He seems excited, and if that’s what works for him, you won’t argue. You start to tidy up the countertop and take stock of what you need to do. “I was promised wine,” you say, and then your eyes land on the massive bottle of cheap red. So, the two of you have similar tastes there. </p><p>“I only drink socially,” he says, rooting around a drawer for a corkscrew. “But I felt bad that you wouldn’t be able to partake in the meal. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”</p><p>Carbonara is, on paper, a pretty simple dish, so you can see why he thought it would be a good jumping-off point. But plenty of Italian restaurants don’t make it because it’s really tricky to get just right, and easy to screw up even if you’ve made it dozens of times. It’s like it can smell cockiness and decides to become scrambled eggs if you don’t show enough respect.</p><p>The key to a good carbonara is slow cooking the pancetta to render out the fat. Back when you would make it, you used thick cut bacon, because it’s cheaper and easier to find, and you would cut that into inch long strips. What you want to do is place it in a cold pan and then get to cooking on low heat.</p><p>Here’s where things go wrong: though you’ve turned down the flame of the burner, he had placed <em> way </em> too much pancetta in the pan, and as a result you’re left with too much grease frying the already burnt meat. </p><p>Throwing what is surely a very expensive pancetta (you note the varying sizes of the meat and decide your first lesson with Spencer will be knife skills) into a hot pan will leave you with a char you don’t want or need, but the good thing is that there isn’t as much oil bubbling in the pan as there could be.</p><p>As you’re moving to drain some of it from the pan into a ceramic bowl and salvage this botched meal, Spencer uses a little too much force to try uncorking what turns out to be a twist top bottle of wine. The result is that he steps backwards to steady himself, bumps into you, and hot oil splashes across your left hand.</p><p>You curse, loudly, and he drops the bottle. You hear it shatter, smell the sickly sweetness of wine as it splashes across his floor. Then you feel how the burn seeps deep into your skin, far-reaching in its pursuit of agony, and feel tears welling up in your eyes.</p><p>“Are you alright?” he asks. Without giving you time to answer, he assesses the damage. “Ah, damn. I’m so sorry. Put your hand in there.” Quickly, he fills one of his serving bowls with cool water and leads you over to take a seat at his kitchen table.</p><p>“Hurts,” you say through gritted teeth and tears. The water helps somewhat, but the pain is deep, where the chill won’t reach. You close your eyes. “Ice?”</p><p>“No, sorry,” he says. His voice becomes professional, almost clinical if not for the note of worry. “You shouldn’t use ice for oil burns. Could damage the skin. <em> Shit</em>.” </p><p>You open your eyes and force yourself to look at your hand underneath the water. About three inches of skin spanning the length of your thumb are quickly turning a stark white. </p><p>“What do we do?” you ask, panic coloring your voice and making it pitchy. </p><p>“We need to get you to a hospital.”</p><p><em> Goddammit</em>. You try and regulate your breathing. It’s too shaky. At least there isn’t any blood. The pain makes it hard to think. “Why?”</p><p>“It seems deep- you need a doctor to check you out. With partial-thickness burns there’s always a possibility of infection.” </p><p>“Turn off the stove,” you say weakly, remembering.</p><p>He does, tiptoeing over the spilt wine, and then he’s back to hovering over you, and carefully takes your hand out of the water to examine it. </p><p>“My neighbor is a school nurse. Can she take care of it?”</p><p>He bites his lip. “I’m sorry, we should get you to the ER. It’s bad, and I can’t assess exactly how bad.”</p><p>“No ambulance, okay?”</p><p>“Okay. We can take my car.”</p><p>Moving to stand up, you press your uninjured hand into the table for support. You feel woozy, then realize you haven’t eaten anything today since lunch. Your stomach turns and suddenly you feel arms around your waist.</p><p>“I think it’s time for me to return a favor.”</p><p>“Ow,” you say, closing your eyes again and letting him lead you out into the elevator.</p><p>“C’mon,” he says gently. “Is there anyone you need to call?”</p><p>You shake your head. “No. It’s gonna be quick, right? In and out of the ER? Do <em> not </em> let them put me in a bed.”</p><p>Spencer’s pale purple shirt sleeves are rolled up almost past his elbows, and you grip one of his arms, hard, as the elevator makes its descent. The pain in your hand is only growing worse. There’s something about his manner you haven’t yet seen until now, an underlying calm that belies his occupation, but guilt is more obvious. </p><p>“Spencer?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“By side salad, did you mean… a chopped pepper? With ranch?”</p><p>“...Yes?”</p><p>“My god, you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This feels like a short one, so I'll post Chapter 6 on Saturday, since I'll likely be writing a bit more now that classes are (almost) done and I'm pretending finals don't exist. Lyn kind of wrote herself, and I love her.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chana Masala</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You have to go to the ER for a burn on your hand, and Spencer is apologetic. Content: minor injury, pain meds</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Opium: that terrible truth serum. Dark secrets guarded for a lifetime can be divulged with carefree folly after a sip of the black smoke.”</p>
  <p>― Roman Payne, <em>The Wanderess</em></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Thursday still, 8:42pm</b>
</p><p>“He’s not an actual doctor,” you say to the nurse. You’ve managed to regain some kind of composure, though the pain in your hand is still a deep, dull throbbing. Her name is Patricia, which seems like a very apt name for the stern older woman who stands before you, stone-faced, with teddy bear scrubs. </p><p>“I’m a doctor.”</p><p>“You’ve got doctorates. You’re not an actual, medical doctor, and I just think she should know that.”</p><p>The two of you had stopped briefly at your apartment when you realized you needed to get your bag and a pair of real shoes. Spencer had helped you put your boots on while you tried to stop crying in front of him. Carolyn’s spilt vodka cranberry in your kitchen had seemed an uncanny reflection of the wine on Spencer’s floor one level above, and the music next door had still been booming. </p><p>The bed you’re now perched on in the ER is surrounded by a flimsy curtain, and Spencer is standing next to you, nervous energy keeping him upright. He refuses to take a seat. The nurse looks at the two of you, assessing the apron Spencer is still wearing, and the fact that there’s a mostly-legible phone number written on his forearm, which you’ve got an iron grip on. He hasn’t complained yet. “First date?” she guesses.</p><p>Spencer blushes. “It was a cooking lesson gone wrong,” you say, wincing as she inspects your hand. Blisters are forming, but the nurse says it’s good that they’re closed. </p><p>“The burn she’s suffering is from near-boiling pork fat, and her hand was submerged in cool water immediately after the incident, for about ten minutes.”</p><p>“Submerged in ice water?” the nurse asks. </p><p>“No, just cool tap water.” </p><p>“Good. It won’t be too bad, but it will definitely scar. The question of how badly is just a matter of taking care of it. It’s good that you started treating it immediately… Doctor. How bad is your pain, honey? On a scale of one to ten.”</p><p>You say, “Um… Five? Six? It’s just a small burn.”</p><p>Spencer gives his input. “Women are statistically more likely to underrate their pain scale in a hospital setting. It might seem small, but second-degree burns can involve very intense pain-”</p><p>“You are <em> not </em> diagnosing me.”</p><p>Patty seems reluctant to tell you he’s right. “We can get you something for the pain, sweetheart. I’ll get a doctor to come over and double check before we dress the wound, but you’re going to want a little something for that.” </p><p>The little green pill she gets you helps. It instills a kind of heaviness to your limbs, but the pain starts to subside after a while. You’re trying to focus on anything other than the burn, but you grow bored with the bustle of people throughout the ER and the smell of antiseptic.</p><p>“I’m going to help you fill out this insurance form, okay? I need my arm back.”</p><p>A horrible realization wells up in you, but it’s numbed by the opiate you were given, so you once again laugh at the bad news. Your grip tightens on his arm instead of returning it to him. “Spence, I… I want to go home.” <em> I can’t afford this. </em></p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“What do you think this’ll cost me? They’re just gonna tell me to change the bandages and keep it clean, right? How much is one tablet of Oxy on a hospital bill?” </p><p>That was tactless. He begins to resume the string of apologies he began in the car ride over, after you’d double checked a couple times that he would under no circumstances be calling an ambulance. You tune back in when he says something about covering the cost of the bill.</p><p>“No way, genius. It was an accident. It could have happened in my own kitchen.”</p><p>“But it didn’t. And it was something you wouldn’t have been making.”</p><p>“Fine, okay? I’ll send you the bill.” You will be doing no such thing. “Now, can you grab my insurance card from my wallet? Wait, no, I don’t want you memorizing any of my credit cards.” He could be the world’s best con artist if he hadn’t decided to become a cop. You recall from conversation at the bar nearly a week ago that he’s not allowed in most casinos. </p><p>He seems genuinely offended. “I wouldn’t do something like that.”</p><p>“I’m <em> messing </em> with you, Spence. Half of them aren’t even active anymore.”</p><p>“Then you should… throw them out?”</p><p>“That would be too sensible, <em> Doctor</em>,” you tell him. </p><p>Your voice is bordering on flirty, but you are in the process of becoming pleasantly stoned, so you don’t really care. Among other things, the drug is granting your eyes the freedom and fearlessness to stare into the sculpting of Spencer’s face that you just don’t have sober.  He seems flustered. You like the way he fidgets, tapping on the clipboard, how when he bites the inside of his cheek the hollows of his face are sharply pronounced. It becomes easier to focus on this than the dull pain in your hand. </p><p>When you’ve stared for what is definitely an inappropriate amount of time, he starts to look confused, a line forming in his brow and his lips parted in an unasked question. Some words tumble out of your mouth, and you don’t mind them. They feel unattached from you entirely, just a truth that needs to escape your body. </p><p>“You’re so <em> pretty</em>.” You feel lighter having said this. Right now it’s too hard to pretend you’re not attracted to him to the point of impatience. You want to touch his hair again, and almost do, but as you lift your left hand to brush a strand out of his face, he gently grasps your wrist, carefully avoiding the burn. </p><p>“How much OxyContin did she give you?”</p><p>“You’re blushing, but it’s true, Spence. It’s like you don’t even know it.” </p><p>“Then, thank you.” He sounds amused.</p><p>“You’re very welcome.”</p><p>“You’re pretty, too, you know.” He says it as if it’s just another one of the facts he has bouncing around in that head of his.</p><p>You nod, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world that he should think this. “What are you going to do about it?” </p><p>He largely ignores this, save for a deeper reddening of his cheeks, and this annoys you. “What’s your middle name?” he asks. </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“For the form. I need your middle name.”</p><p>“It’s on the old credit cards,” you say, and that makes you laugh, too hard. You’re so glad you don’t have work tomorrow, but also you really need that money now. </p><p>You were on track to have enough money for next month’s rent and groceries and the general budget for being alive, and you can probably pick up extra shifts at work, but it would be nice, maybe, to have a couple days sitting on the couch with nothing to do but focus on the work that is healing. You picture having a couple days to just <em> breathe </em>.  </p><p>You’re still laughing. He looks a little concerned. It’s still adorable. “I’m sorry,” you manage to gasp, “I just feel very tired all of a sudden.”</p><p>“You should lie down. You might be experiencing low blood pressure as a result of mild shock.” <em> It would explain a lot </em>, he seems to imply.</p><p>If you lay down, you might fall asleep, and you don’t want to give the vultures that run the American medical system a reason to bill you for a night here. Besides, the smells that accompany a hospital are so sterile and clinical that you don’t want to let your guard down here. </p><p>“No, thank you, I just… would you sit next to me? I’ll tell you what to write down if you promise not to steal my identity. <em> Kidding</em>.”</p><p>He obliges and takes a seat next to you on the edge of the hospital bed, and you take advantage of the moment and allow yourself to sink too much into him, sitting comfortably, like very old friends or maybe new lovers. </p><p>Your legs are pressed together and your head finds a comfortable place to rest against his shoulder, and it seems like he is comfortable, too, from the way he angles his neck so that the two of you are looking over the clipboard together. He’s so warm, you close your eyes and imagine how it would be to fall asleep right there. Would the smell of him, heart-achingly perfect, permeate your dreams? </p><p>The doctor comes by and doesn’t ask Spencer to leave your side, so he stays. She informs you that you need to keep the area clean, and that you should only use loose-fitting dry bandages to dress the wound until it heals in a couple of weeks. Change the dressing daily, don’t irritate it. She offers pain medication, and you shake your head. She prescribes an antibiotic cream.</p><p>There will be some scarring, it’s fairly deep, but fast action prevented the worst of it. Spencer beams, and does not bring up his own doctorates. When the doctor records something on your chart before leaving, Spencer peers at it, nods. </p><p>“Can you read upside down?” you mumble as he leads you to the desk to pay and pick up the prescription for the cream. You’re overwhelmed by a feeling of relief to be getting out of here, maybe getting something to eat.</p><p>“Yeah,” he replies absentmindedly, looking over the completed form, minus your social security number, because you will be filling that in yourself, thank you very much. You think back to when you were working on your story earlier today and your stomach turns. Could he read the amateur horror story you were working on? The idea of him doing something as intimate as reading something you cared about is… upsetting, but only because he probably thought it was awful. </p><p>But all you say is “rude”, and he doesn’t question you.</p><p>You turn in your form at the desk and ask for an itemized receipt of your bill. Spencer grabs it before you even have a chance to look at it, and you decide you will find the strength to argue about this later.</p><p>Sadly, he takes off the apron before getting back into the front seat of his car, and places it delicately in the back. Before backing out of the parking garage, he turns to you with a very serious look on his face. “Hey, I just wanted to-”</p><p>“Spence, you’re too smart to be acting this dumb. It’s fine, really. I’m gonna be <em> fine</em>. Let’s just go get my stupid cream. This was the most expensive first date I’ve ever been on.”</p><p>He stammers something wholly unidentifiable but finally drives out of the garage.</p><hr/><p>After the pharmacy you pick up some takeout from an Indian restaurant around the corner from your building because you’ve had enough of his cooking for the night and you’re both ravenously hungry. You buy the food, because he really is being adamant about not giving you your own damn hospital bill.</p><p>Spencer walks you up to your apartment and the first thing you notice is that the mess from Lyn’s drink has been cleaned up. You knew it was a mistake to teach her how to pick locks, but in this case, you don’t mind, just make a mental note to install a deadbolt. Spencer notices too.</p><p>“Wasn’t there a spill-”</p><p>“Lyn, my neighbor, has a key,” you lie. She must have heard some commotion and stopped in. It’s unusually thoughtful for her to have done this, but she’s also pretty damn nosy. </p><p>The two of you tackle the food in a comfortable silence, save for a tidbit on his part about how India exports about sixty percent of the world’s turmeric. The plastic bag from the drugstore sits on your kitchen counter, filled with gauze and ibuprofen and some gummy bears he had seen you admiring at the register. He has also purchased you iron supplements, claiming that you get cold too easily. After you finish eating, feeling infinitely better if still exhausted, he insists on applying the antibiotic cream to your hand. </p><p>He watches you run it under cool water and takes your hand gently in his, basically repeating what the (other) doctor said. “Change the bandage daily. Keep a close eye on it in case the area goes numb, okay?” </p><p>You grit your teeth as he dabs some of the cream onto the blisters. “It <em> definitely </em> doesn’t feel numb. And don’t apologize again,” you press on, seeing another <em> I’m sorry </em> form on his face.</p><p>His hands are sure and capable as he wraps the gauze carefully around your thumb. “Do you feel confident doing the wrap yourself?” he asks softly.</p><p>“Yeah, I think so. I used to wrap my hands for boxing classes, this looks similar. Don’t look so surprised- you’re not the only one who’s tougher than they seem. I took self-defence classes when I moved to the city.”</p><p>His grin is crooked and this delights you. “I should have guessed, from the way you hold yourself sometimes.”</p><p>“I’m kind of glad you didn’t. I feel like I don’t get to have secrets around you.”</p><p>“‘If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself’,” he quotes. Orwell.</p><p>He’s done bandaging you up now, and it’s just your hand in his, absentmindedly tracing the gauze. </p><p>“Alright, Big Brother. People deserve privacy. You see too much.”</p><p>“I disagree with you there, I’m having a hard time figuring you out. Sometimes you seem really nervous around me, and sometimes you seem... comfortable. I just don’t know what it means.” </p><p>He’s a genius, but he’s also still a man, and that makes him something of an idiot. You squeeze his hand, once, and let go. “Well, every now and then I remember that you can read all of my unconscious movements and figure me out. That makes me nervous. So I try not to think.”</p><p>“Does that work, not thinking?”</p><p>Apart from when your mind goes blank because you’re staring at him? Seeing color rise in his cheeks? “Rarely.”</p><p>Then you look at his lips and briefly consider kissing him, not in the way one contemplates actually executing a plan, but as a fantastical <em> what-if </em>due to the hazy air still surrounding your thoughts. But it doesn’t feel quite right, and it would have to be exactly right, with him, so instead the two of you say goodnight and you don’t see him until a little over a week later under some less than ideal circumstances.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>He is oblivious, isn't he?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Frozen Burritos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your week is pretty uneventful, until it isn't. content: mentions of marijuana, alcohol, and tobacco</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“It made you wonder: How much of our lives was just luck or good timing, and how much was actually choice? How could it be that tiny serendipitous events could change everything? And if lucky events could change everything, could minor mishaps have the same power?”</p>
  <p>― Aditi Khorana, <em> Mirror in the Sky </em></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Monday</b>
</p><p>Your week is going exceedingly average apart from the fact that Paul starts to ask you to either pick up extra shifts that don’t coincide with your usual hours or else take the day off entirely. “Everything okay lately? With the business?” you ask him at one point. He evaluates you carefully before responding.</p><p>“Better than ever, actually.” He carries a large hardcover book under his arm as he’s on his way out the door, one you haven’t seen before.</p><p>
  <b>Tuesday</b>
</p><p>Visiting Lyn at work, she insists on redressing your bandage so she can check out the situation. Even in the space of a few days it looks and feels significantly better.</p><p>The two of you having lunch at the picnic tables not far from the high school where she works, courtesy of the freezer burned food from the faculty lounge. “You’ll get a cool scar out of this,” she informs you. “Not a big one or really visible one, but a conversation-starter.”</p><p>Sarcasm falls easily from your lips. “Oh, <em> cool</em>, just what I’ve always wanted.” She’s startlingly good at this, but you shouldn’t be surprised. She is a nurse, after all.</p><p>“You have to admit that it’s a little funny that you got hurt helping a dude fry pork. Seriously? Are you desperate, babe?”</p><p>“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, taking another bite of the microwaved bean burrito. It’s piping hot at the edges, but cold at the very center. </p><p>“Other than that, how’d it go with Doctor Lofty?”</p><p>You shake your head. “He’s out on a case right now, in San Francisco. We had tentative plans for a few days ago but he had to go. Whisked away on a private jet. How was your date last night? Larissa?”</p><p>Lyn corrects you that she went out with a girl named Clarissa, and it was alright. “She’s gorgeous and definitely into me, but boring as hell. All she wanted to talk about was Surrealist art. And I’m as sophisticated as the next girl, but at a certain point it becomes weird and performative. Like, okay, sorry I’m not buried in art school debt, we get it, you went to RISD. You don’t hear me talking about kids faking stomach aches all day, do you? But I’m gonna give her another shot.”</p><p>A tall kid walks by, letterman jacket and all, and sees Lyn. “Miss Valdes! Hey!”</p><p>“Speak of the devil,” she mutters. </p><p>The kid performs a clearly fake cough. “Miss Valdes, can you tell Mr. Roberts I can’t go to sixth period? I think I’m coming down with something. I’ve got a fever too.”</p><p>She feels his forehead. “You’re fucking lying Ted, and I swear to God I’ll tell your parents I caught you with weed that time if you come in here and try to play sick to get out of your Chem exam. Crack a book.”</p><p>He walks off, not very fazed by this interaction.</p><p>“How do you not get… fired?” you ask, thinking back to how one time a woman had demanded to speak to Paul when you had spent too long processing a return when she hadn’t had the receipt. “Also, is that where my weed comes from?”</p><p>“Yes. And it runs the other way, too. The kids no one seems to believe come to me with problems. All teenagers want is to act like adults, but people rarely treat them that way.”</p><p>You come to the realization that you and Lyn would have been uniquely suited to a friendship in high school. You take another bite of the wretched burrito and feel a sudden influx of gratitude for having someone like her in your life right now to cut through the bullshit.</p><p>“-you listening? Hello? I’m taking this as a yes.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Do you want to come out with me Friday? Get your mind off tall, smart, and unreachable?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure. Sounds nice.”</p><p>
  <b>Wednesday</b>
</p><p>At work, you say to Paul, “I’ve only asked once. Your side business, it isn’t hurting anyone, right?”</p><p>“Only the very rich and very dead,” he confirms, which does not ease your anxiety as much as you would have liked, considering you’re pretty sure you’re falling for an FBI agent. </p><p>
  <b>Thursday</b>
</p><p>The standing reading you have at a public library downtown is a welcome reprieve from thoughts equally embarrassing and uncertain surrounding one Spencer Reid. He’s barely contacted you since apologizing for having to cancel plans involving trying to make a simple alfredo, something which might end in a meal and not an incident. You understand; his work is all-consuming. It’s just hard having a crush on someone you conceivably only see once a week. Hard, but not impossible, apparently. </p><p>One young boy, a regular at the after-school program, is picked up a little late today. He’s about five, blonde with big blue eyes and a calm you don’t see in most five year olds. </p><p>“So sorry,” says the curly-haired blonde woman who comes to get him. She’s Jessica Brooks, his aunt, and one of the librarians confirms she’s approved to pick him up. “I thought his dad would be here by now, but he’s still not back from work.”</p><p>“It’s totally fine, Jack and I were just getting a little extra reading in. Right, buddy?”</p><p>He nods, and gives you a high five as he leaves, and the fact that you’re sad to see a five year old go means you need to be getting more human interaction in. You’re really looking forward to a girls’ night with Lyn tomorrow.</p><p>
  <b>Friday</b>
</p><p>Lyn makes the introductions. “Hey, so this is Clarissa, and this is Adam.”</p><p>
  <em> Got in a couple of hours ago. Not sure if you’re doing anything tonight, but I might try cooking again. Something simpler. -Spencer </em>
</p><p>Clarissa is a blonde woman who looks like she’s dressed for the runway, and Adam looks perfectly average, nothing against him, maybe he’s fine, but you can’t believe that you let yourself fall for this <em> again</em>. </p><p>
  <em> I forgot to say this, but you’re invited. I got a new bottle of wine. I know for sure it’s got a cork this time. -Spencer </em>
</p><p>You start to type, <em> I’m out right now </em> :( <em> I had a date set up with a friend, would be there if I could. Stay safe in there, the kitchen seems deadlier than the field. </em> Then- no way you’re sending that. It could come off as really distasteful if something screwed up happened this week. How often does he see people die?  </p><p>You all make the customary introductions with the requisite politeness and then, as soon as you get the chance, pull Lyn aside to a corner of the bar where you stood with a bunch of FBI agents not two weeks ago.</p><p><b>“</b>I can’t believe you!” You absolutely can.</p><p>“This is so much more your fault than mine. You <em> never </em> ask questions about what, exactly, we’re going to do, and I never lie and say it <em> isn’t </em> a double date. And you’re like, the only girl I know who dates guys.” She pats you on the head sympathetically. “Sorry. Plus, you make my dates exactly the right kind of jealous.”</p><p>You let that remark go, in favor of drafting another text. <em> Can’t tonight :( had plans with a friend. Are you free tomorrow? </em> Is that too desperate if he’s already indicated he wants to hang out? You haven’t been interested in someone in so long. </p><p>Lyn ditches you, as per usual, and so instead you focus on trying to maintain a suitable distance from Adam while engaging in the required active listening. He’s been talking about duck hunting for a while.</p><p>“-so what you want to do is build a blind for you and the dogs, to keep your cover. I’ve got some pretty good decoys, too, one of my cousins gets me a discount at the pro shops, but I didn’t bag many last season.”</p><p>“Oh no.” Your eyes scan the bar for Lyn and Clarissa, not seeing them anywhere. Lyn is in the really fun and not at all inconvenient habit of pulling her dates into the bathroom with her and not coming back out for quite a while. It always makes it difficult for you when you’re three drinks in on an already awkward date and have to go pee.</p><p>“General season starts soon, though, and my cousin has a cabin where we camp out with the guys. Honestly, it’s the best part of my year. I always make sure to take off from work. I’m a consultant, did I tell you that?”</p><p>You nod, your eyes landing on someone familiar in the distance.  “That’s nice.” Emily Prentiss, standing with a blonde woman.</p><p>Maybe it’s hypocritical to mind so much when this man talks about things you couldn’t care less about, but when Spencer goes off on a tangent, he’s elated and compelling. His eyes light up and even if you can’t understand what he’s saying, the longer you let him talk, the more animated he gets, like he’s surprised you let him go on for that long.</p><p>And he asks you questions. This conversation could have been entirely avoided if Adam had asked you even one question about your thoughts on the subject. So much for your injury being a conversation starter.</p><p>“Of course, you aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.”</p><p>Your eyes snap to meet his gray ones. “Sorry. I am. It’s just, Lyn wasn’t totally truthful about, uh, you being here tonight. I thought it was just going to be a ladies’ night. You seem nice, I just think your efforts might be better spent elsewhere, you know?”</p><p>He holds his arms up in a conciliatory gesture. “I get it. My mistake. No assumptions, then. I might head out for a smoke, though. Would you want to come with?”</p><p>You could use the air, since Lyn is still nowhere to be seen and the bar is filling up fast. You resolve to say hi to Emily when you come back inside. “Sure.”</p><p>The nights are getting warmer as you head towards April, but the air still has a crispness to it that you love. The two of you head out the side door to the recesses of an alley where Adam lights a cigarette, offers you one. You hesitate- you haven’t smoked since early in college, when you wanted to try a little of everything at least once. </p><p>You refuse, because you’ve become a little more cemented in your personality since then.</p><p>He does what you wish more men would do and gives silence a try, smoking while the two of you do nothing but lean against the wall and smell the night air, though unfortunately it now smells a lot like cigarette smoke. While it is a perfectly nice silence, it isn’t as good as one you would share with a friend. You are two strangers who met tonight and will continue to be strangers tomorrow, and for the rest of your lives, and this is acceptable to you.</p><p>Adam exhales. “So, no dice? Really?” You shake your head and he doesn’t bother you further, just heads inside eventually; you feel a little bad for him, but not bad enough to go back into the bar just yet. </p><p>You stay where you are and enjoy the air as it clears, and try and assess whether going back to your apartment to hang out with Spencer would be a good idea. Maybe you should call Sarah. You have a rule that you don’t cancel plans with a friend for a guy, but in this particular instance you would be heading back anyways. You text him back: <em> I’m out right now, had a date planned with a friend. Call me tomorrow? </em>You hit send.</p><p>Lyn was right. You’re talking yourself out of it. You’re telling yourself that, should Spencer Reid ever get the guts to ask you out, it wouldn’t work because he has a career famous for ruining marriages, let alone new, charged friendships that might lead into more. </p><p>You’re thinking way too far ahead, as Sarah might tell you. You send her a text: <em> Hey, are you free to call? No code red, just miss your advice. Love you. </em></p><p>It’s as if you’ve conjured him up; Spencer and Derek leave the bar through the same door you had gone through just a few minutes ago. You wonder if Spencer has read your message yet. </p><p>Before you can move out of the shadows and greet them, you hear Derek say, “I think you should go for it. From what you’ve told me, she’s interested. Why else would she only have eyes for you during a dance with me?”</p><p>Spencer laughs humorlessly. “Why, indeed.”</p><p>“Really, I find out that she’s single for you and then give you that information on a silver platter, and you go two weeks doing absolutely nothing with that intel?”</p><p>“There’s no indication that she wants anything romantic. I don’t need that. She’s being friendly, that’s all, and that’s… that means so much. I like her. I just feel like there’s just no chance she’ll ever want to see me again.”</p><p>“Invite her out with us. The shots you don’t take, and all that.”</p><p>“Are you kidding? Derek, I sent her to the Emergency Room. There aren’t exactly studies done about the likelihood of her spending time with me after that, but I gather the odds aren’t great. Besides, she’s busy tonight... I already checked.”</p><p>“You need to stop beating yourself up about that, it sounds like she was a really good sport. It’ll be nothing more than a funny story in a few years.”</p><p>There’s a moment of silence. Your breathing feels very loud. It’s wrong to be here, but this is kind of on them; you suppress a hysterical laugh at the fact that you’re essentially spying on FBI agents.</p><p>“For someone who thought I was a virgin two hours ago, you’ve got some confidence in my long game.”</p><p>“No, I <em> know </em> you, Reid. And I’ve never seen you like this before. When a girl says ‘what are you going to do about it’, you <em> do something about it</em>.” You’re mortified that he knows this, but secretly pleased that Spencer didn’t just brush it off like you’d thought.</p><p>“She was on a fairly strong painkiller at the time.”</p><p>“So the truth came out.” </p><p>He seems to be mulling this over.</p><p>“Don’t say anything to the rest of the team? About… the pancetta incident?”</p><p>“My lips are sealed, Casanova. Do your thinking, but please, make a move. I’ve got money on this.”</p><p>“How long have I got before you lose the pool?”</p><p>“Another week. Make it count.”</p><p>And, because your life is in many ways a cosmic joke, your cell phone rings.</p><p>You haven’t experienced a panic this visceral in a very long time. It freezes you in place and an iciness sets in, chilling your blood and settling uncomfortably into your bones. Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid, after glancing over casually to see the source of the noise in what they had wrongly assumed was an empty alleyway, seem similarly suspended in time when they see it’s you. But your phone continues ringing.  </p><p>It’s Sarah, of course, calling you. You clear your throat, wave at the two figures across the alley, and then turn around to answer, if only to stop the noise your phone is making. </p><p>“Hey lovely, what’s up?”</p><p>“So, um, actually, can I call you back? Later? Now isn’t such a great time after all. Love you, I’ll explain soon. <em> So </em> sorry.” </p><p>You whirl back around and the men are exactly where you last saw them, though you’d hoped they might vanish. Spencer seems to be wishing for the exact same thing. Morgan just looks amused.</p><p>“So,” you say. “Having a nice night?” You can’t make eye contact with Spencer.</p><p>“Definitely,” Derek says. “Just got in from a case. Unwinding. How have you been?”</p><p>“Oh, you know. Getting some air,” you say weakly. You wish your face would stop burning. At least a kind of warmth begins to return to your body.</p><p>“I bet. Now, I’ve got to head back in, but you two have fun, alright? Hope you’re feeling better.”</p><p>You raise your left hand and do an awkward half-salute so he can see the layers of gauze you’ve got on. “Yup.”</p><p>And Morgan leaves you, chuckling to himself, and Spencer Reid is alone on the opposite side of the alleyway. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(I know tons of people think Reid is a virgin but I think scientific curiosity alone would compel him to have sex at least once even if he wasn't in l*ve lmfao I think the bartender from that one episode hooked up with him and I cannot be convinced otherwise)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. An Absence of Smoke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You experience a hard wall and harder conversation.<br/>content: mention of tobacco.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"I'm oxygen and he's dying to breathe."</p>
  <p>― Tahereh Mafi, <em>Shatter Me</em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>Still Friday. Still Painfully Awkward.</b>
</p><p>It feels like a very long time before either one of you moves. You had assumed it would be you, because that would be keeping with the trend so far; you can’t just avoid eye contact forever, and up until now he has been a stuttering, blushing mess in all things even remotely confrontational. But before you decide on any course of action, he drifts over. You soon realize this is not out of any newfound confidence, but the exact opposite.</p><p>His eyes are downturned, but he leans against the same wall as you and asks, “How’s your hand?” </p><p>“It’s fine. Really good, actually.” He seems all awkward angles, including the way he cranes his neck to inspect it, as though you might be lying, like maybe your hand has disappeared entirely since you last saw him.</p><p>“You smell like cigarette smoke,” Spencer says. </p><p>You laugh shakily. “Wow, they should give you a raise.”</p><p>“Tobacco use is the leading cause of preventable deaths in the United States. According to the CDC, if nobody smoked, one in three cancer-related deaths wouldn’t even occur.”</p><p>“I know that. Not that you can tell me what to do, but it’s secondhand.”</p><p>He seems to look at you, then, with the intention to deduce something. You imagine he must see how you are all put-together, wearing makeup and uncomfortable shoes. There’s a sullen quality to his voice you aren’t quite familiar with when he speaks. Resignation, maybe? “You're on a date. With a smoker.”</p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>“So you’re not on a date?”</p><p>“Well, I am. Was. But it just ended. It was an accident.”</p><p>“You’re on a date… accidentally?” He doesn’t seem to believe you, or else thinks it’s a ludicrous situation. Which, it is, but still.</p><p>“I didn’t think Lyn would do another one of her setups, not…” <em> Not after I told her about you. </em> “I’m going to kill her after this. Don’t arrest me for it, I’ll deny.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And then he sighs.</p><p>And you were right about silence on a night like this, about how it would be more enjoyable with someone else, a friend. This silence is beautiful not only because it gives you a chance to turn Spencer’s words over in your head and all of Derek’s implications, but because every moment that passes distances you from that panic of a few minutes ago. You do some deep breathing exercises, and you’re sure Spencer notices, but other than a shift in his posture the two of you are lost in your own heads for a long time.</p><p>“So,” you say eventually. You let the word float out between you two, and then into the night sky. You watch it go. “This is apparently your team’s regular bar. That’s good to know.”</p><p>“Yeah, we just got back. I let Derek drag me out of the apartment.”</p><p>You think of Lyn. “I know how that feels.”</p><p>“Was he right?”</p><p><em> Yes </em>. “About what?”</p><p>“Any of it? Am I stupid to think that you would ever want to see me again?”</p><p>“Spencer, what part of the last time I saw you made you think I didn’t want to see you again? What evidence, exactly, is pointing you in that direction?”</p><p>He’s taking you literally and thinking back, and it’s like he’s watching something you can’t see. The hospital, probably. “You cried.”</p><p>“Pain response.”</p><p>“You wanted to leave.”</p><p>“Stressed about the bill.”</p><p>“And then you didn’t want me to pay it.”</p><p>“I’m going to pay you back, by the way. That’s just common sense.” Not that you even got to see the final amount. You can definitely call up the hospital and ask. “What else have you got? Me calling you pretty? Holding your hand? Calling it a first date? Getting food together after?”</p><p>“I recall you seemed concerned I might steal your identity.”</p><p>He’s kidding with you now, maybe emboldened by what you’ve said. You sneak a glance just as he does the same thing, your eyes meeting, and this is the first time you’ve seen hope written clearly on Spencer Reid’s features.</p><p>“That’s still a concern,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve probably memorized all my insurance information.”</p><p>“I would never.”</p><p>“Hey, if it leads to you paying all my bills, so be it.”</p><p>A chuckle from him, and then: “You said I was acting dumb.” </p><p>Here goes nothing.</p><p>“There were, like, three separate times when you could have kissed me in the hospital alone, Spencer; you <em> were </em> being dumb.”</p><p>He opens his mouth. Closes it. Eyebrows go up. You watch him download this sentence, the way you’ve said it and the way your body turns, unconsciously, closer to him. Maybe he even sees your pupils dilate. </p><p>You’ve imagined (on several occasions) what it would be like to kiss him. To close the easy space that so often occurs between the two of you, pulling him close to your chest by the collar of his cardigan. To look into his eyes and brush a piece of hair out of his face and find his lips in the process. You were wrong to think that he would be tentative with you, that it would take anything more than an admission.</p><p>Yes, when he leans in, he’s hesitant, eyes still questioning whether you will reciprocate if he finally, fucking <em> finally </em> moves to kiss you, and this moment feels like its own little pocket of eternity. Even your quick, slight nod and gasped <em> yes </em> feels like it takes up too much time, but as soon as the gap has been closed and your arms are wrapped around his neck, he’s a goddamn hurricane. He pushes against you the same way you push against him, heavy and undone. You <em> finally </em> run your hands through his hair, tugging a little too forcefully once he’s got you up against the rough brick. His resulting gasp makes you feel like there is nothing holding you up, and then you realize there isn’t, it’s just him, it’s only his arms which have circled your hips and the wall behind you that’s keeping you from sinking into the earth in a contented puddle. And then you part, a little amazed, and focus on standing.</p><p>“You don’t taste like cigarette smoke,” he says dumbly. You feel like you’re breathing in the taste of every one of his words, the precious surprise held in them.</p><p>In between heavy breaths, you find the air to say, “No, I don’t.”</p><p>“You really sent him back?”</p><p>“Yes, you moron. Why wouldn’t I? Why would I suffer a boring man when you’re here?”</p><p>He chuckles, a low sound right in your ear that sets your whole body humming. “I don’t bore you? That’s a first.”</p><p>“I find it really difficult to believe no one’s ever told you you’re mesmerizing. Don’t fish for compliments, Doctor.”</p><p>Before Spencer can speak the inevitable objection to your use of his title, you hear the words “Girls’ night, my ass,” and it’s Adam. Because of course it is, of course this incredibly average man with the bad luck to be friends with Clarissa has decided to come out for another smoke. “Seriously?”</p><p>You watch Spencer take in Adam’s nicotine-stained fingernails and the lighter in his hand. His arms are still around you, pulling you a little closer, actually, but the dazed look on his face has vanished.</p><p>Adam says what a lot of jilted men say, something along the lines of “oh so a guy has to be over six feet to get access, right?” (his words barely register in your ears, you can mostly hear your own heartbeat) and it’s not overly confrontational but there’s a bitterness there that puts you on edge. You don’t live alone in a busy city without having some kind of instinct for men going postal.</p><p>Spencer says, “Short men are less likely to be at risk for cancer, although you seem to be working on that.” </p><p>This is a little bit hilarious because Adam isn’t even <em> short,</em> just a few inches shorter than Spencer is, which leaves him with a perfectly respectable and average height, and everything Spencer says right now is funny because you feel a little bit dizzy. From the way Spencer’s fingers curl around your waist, he seems delighted to feel your restrained laughter. </p><p>But Adam turns bright red with fury anyways and begins to say “Do you want to take this outside?”, but all of you already <em> are </em> outside, and Spencer coolly states that he’s very comfortable where he is, thanks.</p><p>So you grab his hand and make him walk away because you know the look on a man’s face when he’s about to become needlessly violent, and you’d really rather do something else. When the two of you leave the alley and begin heading back to your apartment, you double over with laughter at the thought of the whole scene. This is where it goes wrong.</p><p>Under the streetlamps, out of your embrace, uncertainty comes over him. You don’t see it at first, too busy laughing at the fact that <em> a man who can barely kill ducks just tried to fight an FBI agent </em> , <em> Spence</em>. </p><p>Unbeknownst to you, this is when Spencer Reid’s big brain started to work overtime. </p><p>When you regain your composure, tempered by the chill, his expression is drastically different. He’s clearly thinking a million miles a minute. “Spencer? Are you alright?”</p><p>“That was a huge mistake,” he breathes, eyes wide and so obviously looking straight through you.</p><p><em> Ouch </em> . He quickly says, “No, <em> no </em> , not in that way. <em> That </em> was… Well, you know. Look, I don’t want you to think that I need this from you.”</p><p>“Um, first of all-”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant to say, shit. I don’t know this. I don’t know <em> anything </em> about this.” His voice rises, panicky.</p><p>Your heart is still pounding from the kiss itself, so you imagine that a heavy scoop of nerves on top of that would feel torturous. “Spencer, there’s no-”</p><p>“Wait. Please, wait. I need to think.” He’s pacing the street while you’re stock-still, words caught in your throat. You’re only a few minutes away from your apartment but he doesn’t seem to want to go any further.</p><p>Dread grabs hold of your insides but you manage to speak. “Take all the time you need.”</p><p>This seems to relieve him, and he takes a seat on the steps of some storefront which is currently closed. You sit next to him, but keep some distance there. </p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yeah. I just- need to think of how to put this.”</p><p>These words don’t help with the sinking feeling, which is warring with your desire to kiss him again, right here, and dispel all thoughts from that head of his and maybe continue kissing him until morning. </p><p>You’re not sure how long it is before he begins to speak, but when he does he finally tells you exactly what he’s thinking. You’re always so curious about it, but this isn’t the way you wanted to see what’s going on inside his head. </p><p> “My whole world is my work. It is. Do you mind if I- can I just sort some things out, out loud?” You nod.</p><p>“I worked really hard to get to do this and it... it’s <em> important</em>. And I’m good at it. I am uniquely good at my job.” He says it like he’s trying to convince you, as if you might need convincing. Or maybe he’s just reminding himself.</p><p>“And I don’t know if you understand what it’s like when work shapes your whole world, but I didn’t think I could do anything else and feel purpose like this. I understand what I do and how I fit in, and I don’t get that anywhere else. It used to be that everyone I care about who isn’t related to me by blood is at the BAU.”</p><p>“Okay.” You’re not sure where he’s going with this, but you’re listening. You want him to know that much.  </p><p>“When the jet lands after a case and everyone is relieved to take their weekend off and go home to their families or out with their friends or- or whatever else there is to distract us from what we see, I go home. Alone. But today, when we landed, I thought… I could go home and see you. And the feeling that came over me was so different from the thought of just waiting until Monday to go back to work. I have other things I do, of course, on my weekends, I lecture sometimes and I have books and chess games in the park and a great many small town newspapers to read in addition to continuing my studies-”</p><p>Here, you lay your right hand hesitantly onto his arm, a feather-light touch in case it’s received the wrong way. He’s going off-topic and it’s complicating his point. He runs his thumb over your knuckles, absently, and finds his train of thought again. </p><p>“I could have lived this way for a very long time, playing my part and doing my job well, and saving people. I know a lot of things, some things I’d much rather forget, but I don’t know what to do now that I understand what I’ve been missing, like home cooked food and friends who don’t see the things I do on a weekly basis. And everyone else has had that, this whole time, and just forgot to tell me how much it helps? You’ve never seen these murders, torture- the lowest recesses of humanity. Having you in my life has been… a marked improvement. And I’d like you to stay.”</p><p>“I plan on it,” you say, your words coming out softer than you’d thought they would. This embarasses you, a little, as most emotional vulnerability does.</p><p> “Our time together is very meaningful to me, and I’d rather not ruin it. And I <em> would </em> ruin it. I’m sorry.”</p><p>You are actively resisting the urge to press your forehead against his while you speak, you’re so close. “What are you saying, exactly?”</p><p>“That <em> that </em> shouldn’t be repeated because our odds are… better as friends.” </p><p>You draw back. “So, you want to pretend that didn’t happen? I don’t think I could do that.” You <em> know </em> you can’t.</p><p>“No. No, of course not. I think we can acknowledge that it happened and it was... remarkable. But I believe that if we really enjoy each other’s company, we’re more likely to last as friends.”</p><p>His eyes are pleading, begging for you to tell him you get it. And you do. </p><p>While he was speaking, you were prepared to say any number of convincing things. I<em> won’t hurt you </em> or <em> we can make something work </em> , maybe even <em> how could you possibly ruin this? </em> but you don’t. Not after that. Because, in an upside-down way, you do know what he means. </p><p>He asks you, “Does any of this make sense?”</p><p>You think back to when you were struggling through your last semester of graduate school, barely ever showering, feeling like you were rotting from the inside out and experiencing tunnel vision. And yes, these are different scenarios because he seems to like his work as much as you can bring yourself to “enjoy” dealing with serial murderers, but the point is you were treading water and no one was there to throw you a flotation device. There was one thing you existed for, and you were resigned to finishing it because you were pretty good at it, everyone told you so. And then you were planning on going on to a PhD program because, why not, you definitely <em> could </em> do it and then you could maybe teach or write textbooks or something. Anything having to do with the future was vague and terrifying.</p><p>At the time you had planned that maybe, years later, you’d get around to doing something for yourself. But that was like a drowning man saying that eventually, he would just take a breath when it became a little more convenient. You could never quite picture what time to yourself would even <em> look </em> like until you got hired at Folio, almost on accident, and you could breathe again, take an afternoon to yourself and just cook and watch television or go out with friends if that’s what you felt like doing. Yes, you’re drowning in debt, but who isn’t? You could tread that water.</p><p>So you quit applying to PhD programs, and if you hadn’t, you would not have had tonight. You might not have been around to see it. So why would you let him drown? For a “maybe”, for a relationship you don’t even know that you want?</p><p>In all honesty, you know this very last thought is a lie. You know what you want now. You know, too late, because now that you know what you want, he knows too, and this is where the two of you fork into two different paths. So be it.</p><p>“I understand. I want you in my life too,” you tell him. It’s the truth. You won’t pretend it doesn’t sting, but if the choices are being friends with Spencer or nothing at all, this is what you pick. This feeling will just have to go away with time. </p><p>Despite the effort he apparently put into communicating this to you, he still seems surprised at this response. His mouth curls into a tentative smile, and you can’t help but notice that his lips are pink, chafed from your kiss. You will have to find an airtight container and place the memory of Spencer’s mouth on yours inside of it, and forget it in the back of your mental freezer in order to carry on with this friendship.</p><hr/><p>The night doesn’t end when you leave the elevator and he does his half-wave and resigned smile. You call Sarah back and talk for a very long time. She is drinking a glass of wine on her end, and you are pacing around your kitchen, tidying up and occasionally resisting the urge to scream. She is doing well, apart from dealing with a student who blatantly plagiarized his last paper and is trying to convince her that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You laugh, feeling sorry for the storm he has coming his way, and you’re glad that it is genuine. </p><p>Some of your discussion is about Spencer, but most of it isn’t. <em>I'll be fine,</em> you think, as you listen to Sarah’s vivid description of watching a kid with too much of his parents’ money realize that he isn’t getting out of this so easily. You will be fine. You have had worse nights. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>don't be mad don't be mad don't be mad... this is far from the end. as always, thanks for reading! more to come on Monday</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Dumplings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lyn invites a guest (or two) to dinner.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Couldn't help it, I'm way ahead on my writing and so I figured I would post a bit of fluff. Sorry to everyone who wants to know What Paul's Deal Is- that comes later. Thanks for reading :-)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“It's the little things, I expect. Little treasures we find without knowing their origin. And they come when we least expect them. It's beautiful, when you think about it.”</p>
  <p>― <b>T.J. Klune, The House in the Cerulean Sea</b></p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Monday</b>
</p>
<p>The blonde woman coming by Folio cannot possibly be here for the coffee.</p>
<p>She came into the store Saturday and Sunday, for only a few minutes at a time, and bought a cup before leaving. Today, you’d asked her if you could help her with anything, and she bought a paperback but didn’t seem to really choose it, just picked something off of the shelf and paid in cash. </p>
<p>It unsettles you. It’s not unrealistic to think that she works someplace nearby and just needs a cup of coffee to keep her going, but it concerns you how her gaze settles on everything coolly, how there is no change in her expression from the time she walks in to when she leaves, save for a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. </p>
<p>She doesn’t make much conversation, just the requisite “How are you?” that is part of almost any script and doesn’t actually demand an answer. </p>
<p>You think Paul doesn’t like that she keeps coming by. He saw her Sunday, waited until she left to get into his car and then drove away, a rarity that puts you on edge. You’ve only ever seen him take the car once before, and it makes you uneasy, because the man is a little buzzed at any given hour. This makes you want to go to the police more than whatever nonviolent crime he might be up to.</p>
<p>Would saying something to him, asking a question about this woman, make you seem guilty? You can’t even tell if the guilt in this scenario stems from knowing FBI agents and putting Paul at risk, or knowing Paul while being friends with a couple FBI agents. Hell, maybe it’s both.</p>
<p>She never even raises the cup to her lips. </p>
<hr/>
<p>When you arrive home, Lyn is on your couch eating dried mangos. She has the same place as you, with all the same furniture and layout, but claimed once that yours is “cozier. Like when you go home to visit your parents, and they have the good snacks.” </p>
<p>“You can’t keep breaking in here, you’re going to give me a heart attack someday.” You’ve purchased a deadbolt, and make a mental note to install it tonight. </p>
<p>“I’m not going to give you that heart attack, it’ll be all the caffeine. Hey, guess what? I saw Doctor Lanky today,” she says. </p>
<p>You freeze in the process of placing your keys on their ring by the door, and any words to her about replacing your dried fruit (that shit is <em> expensive</em>) are forgotten. Likely, this was her intention. “What? When?”</p>
<p>Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since Friday. He doesn’t like phones, you know that, and if he has to use one he prefers calling to texting. But you weren’t expecting the total radio silence that you’ve endured the past two and a half days, especially since he isn’t away on a case and that whole, rather awkward conversation on the walk home had been about how you want to spend time with each other. Without complications.</p>
<p>“When I got back from work. We shared the elevator.”</p>
<p>“Did he say anything to you?”</p>
<p>“Just a friendly hello. Looks like hell, though. You talked to him lately?”</p>
<p>“You know I haven’t.” Your tone is accusatory.</p>
<p>“Act pissed at me all you want, but I think that date was a blessing in disguise. Now you know exactly where you stand, right? Shit or get off the pot, babe.”</p>
<p>It isn’t exactly Lyn’s fault that Adam turned out to be such a jackass, but it wouldn’t hurt for her to be a little more remorseful.</p>
<p>“So, I told him you were making veggie dumplings tonight, and that he should stop by. He’s free. You’re welcome.”</p>
<p>You run through your mental list of ingredients in your fridge. Alright, yes, you could definitely make dumplings with the vegetables in your fridge that are about to go bad, mostly cabbage and carrots. The dough is going to take a while, though. “Why would you invite him over?”</p>
<p>She shrugs. “You two are friends, still, right?” You’ve told her about the speech Spencer gave, and how it makes sense, especially since you were so hung up on whether you could actually see yourself getting involved with someone whose life is already filled to the brim with work. </p>
<p>“What time are we eating?”</p>
<p>“I just told him to come by around seven.”</p>
<p>It’s 6:42.</p>
<p>“Can you go get a leek? Try the Asian market a couple blocks down.”</p>
<p>“Oh, so you can spend alone time with Doctor Pretty?” She pouts. </p>
<p>“<em>No </em>, because you volunteered me as a chef for two more people than I expected to cook dinner for tonight and it is literally the least you can do. You’ll be back before he gets here if you hurry.”</p>
<p>She seems to agree, because it’s not like you could make Carolyn do something she doesn’t want to. On her way out the door, she says something which throws you for a loop: “I don’t do these things to cause trouble, you know. I just have a knack for solving problems. You’re welcome.” </p>
<p>Before you can come up with a response that adequately sums up your gratitude for her and also the great deal of stress and frustration she causes you, she’s out the door.</p>
<p>The main ingredients are simple enough- you’ve got your cabbage and carrots, which you had to use soon anyways, and then the onion and garlic that are staples in your fridge. You set them in a bowl with water and white vinegar to wash. You put the sesame oil and hoisin sauce on the counter next to assorted spices and your measuring cups. While the veggies soak, you run to your bedroom and change out of the clothes you’ve been wearing all day into a comfortable shirt and freshly washed sweatpants, roll on some more deodorant. You are deliberately not dressing to impress; you’re dressing for a platonic dinner among friends. </p>
<p>There’s a knock at the door and your heart jumps from its rightful place in your chest up to your throat, pounding madly. If you can only have one kiss with Spencer Reid, you’re glad that it was that one, but there is a storm in him that you could have gone without knowing about. </p>
<p>You check the peephole and there he is, dressed in a pale purple sweater (no tie or silly little vest to speak of) and holding a candle. </p>
<p>Removing the chain on the door, you point to it, because pointing at the large green candle in its glass container is easier than looking him in the eyes. “Why…?” </p>
<p>“Oh, well, I considered bringing a bottle of wine, but that seemed more romantic in nature. And then I couldn’t think of food to accompany dumplings that doesn’t consist of meat, so I just…”</p>
<p>“Brought a candle?” You smile despite the fact that you are trying, not without difficulty, to forget his mouth on yours, his breath against your ear. “Much less romantic. Excellent job.”</p>
<p>“You know what, I’m gonna take it back, I’m just going to give it to Garcia or somebody.”</p>
<p>“Stick to your guns, man. This is a good candle. I really like...” You look at the label. “Eucalyptus dew.”</p>
<p>“I think they just put the dew part in there for marketing appeal. Eucalyptus can help fend off a cold or cough, and I know this is just a candle, but aromatherapy can’t be entirely discounted; eucalyptus is known to be helpful when it comes to relieving mental exhaustion. And I just like how it smells.” He’s wringing his hands.</p>
<p>You wish you weren’t making a mental note that <em> he likes the smell of eucalyptus</em>, but you are. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind next time I have to meet a deadline.” You set the candle down on your dining room table and head to the kitchen. He follows.</p>
<p>“Deadline?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah, I’ve been sending in stories to a few places that have taken them in the past- well, it’s just these stupid-”</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t undersell your work.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” you tell him. “I’m just trying to put some of the stuff I’ve been doing back out there, get paid for it. I used to do it as more of a routine, something on a checklist, but I’ve been writing a lot this past year because I want to. And that’s been nice.”</p>
<p>“I’m happy for you,” he says, and the worst part is that he really seems to mean it.</p>
<p>You lead him over to the vegetables, begin the process of rinsing them off. He says something about bacteria in an approving tone, as though he couldn’t <em> not </em> tell you about how the risk of getting some kind of infection from a root vegetable is lower than with other types of produce. When he helps you wash them, you begin to regain the ability to look him in the eye without thinking of cold brick or his hands on your waist. You get out the cutting board. You demonstrate to him how to skin a carrot, and then take to chopping them. </p>
<p>“Have you ever chopped a cabbage?” you ask him. He shakes his head. You hand him the large knife. “Interested in learning? So, you want to hold the knife like this and the first thing to do is cut it in half and remove the core.”</p>
<p>“It’s a little, uh, stuck,” Spencer says. </p>
<p>“Not enough pressure- usually you use the end of the knife closer to the base. Now we’re just gonna jiggle it so that it makes it through.” You place your hand on top of his and show him how to hold the knife, angling it so that he just needs to apply pressure to slice the head of cabbage in two.</p>
<p>“Jiggle it- a very professional term, Chef.” It feels like he is flirting with you. Are the two of you allowed to do that?</p>
<p>“Tough talk from someone who needs help slicing a vegetable. Good, okay, so now remove the core.” You take one of the halves, as well as the knife, and demonstrate. The resounding crunch is incredibly satisfying. He mimics you almost perfectly.</p>
<p>“And then you want to divide it up into a few wedges and shred it. I don’t have a mandolin, so we’re gonna use this side of the cheese grater. See? Now you try.”</p>
<p>His wedges are a little less evenly sized than yours, but it’s all going to be shredded and bundled up into a pocket of dough, anyways, so you leave him to it and start on the dough. </p>
<p>“We’re using a recipe this time, Spence,” you say, gesturing towards a printed out sheet that’s tacked onto your fridge. </p>
<p>He reads it quickly, smiles. “Am I right in assuming you’ll be guessing for some of this?”</p>
<p>“Correct. We’re making adjustments based on what we’ve got available and what I like, but we’re not messing with the dough.”</p>
<p>He watches you turn to re-read the exact amount of flour you need, and says, “Two and a half cups flour. That’s 300 grams.”</p>
<p>Useful.</p>
<p>Apart from a minor cut on one of his fingers when things get a little dicey with an onion, pun fully and painfully intended on Spencer’s part, the two of you fall into a rhythm. Lyn returns and finds the two of you working on your tasks, with Spencer occasionally telling you the next step or ingredient if you ask. Somewhere along the way, you have figured out how to act around him, which is more or less the same as before, minus the stress of wondering if you can kiss him. You can’t. </p>
<p>And now that you know exactly what he wants, and it’s just the small matter of waiting for your intense feelings of attraction to subside so you can go back to living your wonderfully average life. The feeling between the two of you cannot be described as “just” anything, but you are glad to use the term friendship.</p>
<p>You’ve just set the dough to rest and call out, “It’s going to be about thirty minutes before that’s ready,” when you look up and see it. A small black kitten in Lyn’s purse.</p>
<p>“Um, whatcha got there, Lyn?” you ask. She doesn’t <em> seem </em> like the type to go around stealing people’s pets, but you wouldn’t be willing to die on that hill.</p>
<p>“The leeks you wanted. Hey, agent,” she says. Spencer waves.</p>
<p>“The cat. You’ve got a cat in your bag.”</p>
<p>“Oh! This is our new little guy. Isn’t he cute? There was someone on the street just giving away kittens.” Lyn lifts the small cat out of her crossbody bag and places him on her shoulder, then sneezes. “There was a whole box, I guess, but no one wanted him. He was the last one, can you believe it?”</p>
<p>“Definitely. The term ‘black cat bias’ exists because they’re statistically less likely to be adopted on a number of grounds, due in part to superstition. In a study in Colorado, black cats were adopted after an average of 26.55 days, which is 5.91 more than the average of their counterparts. They’re also slightly more likely to be euthanized.”</p>
<p>Lyn covers up the kittens’ tiny ears. “Don’t let <em> him </em> hear that!”</p>
<p>You feel like you’re the only person about to state the obvious. “Uh, Lyn? Aren’t you… allergic to cats?”</p>
<p>“Well, yes. But I can figure that out later.”</p>
<p>You decide to ignore this. For now. “Okay. Fine. Why not? Hand over the leek.” </p>
<p>You go on to cook the vegetables and have Spencer make the sauce, a simple process which involves no heat or sharp things, and no one gets hurt in the process. Lyn cooks some frozen salmon at her place and brings it over to the kitten so he can have something to eat. While you’re sauteing, Spencer fills a dish with water and goes to see how the kitten is faring with Lyn, and you hear him call out in glee “I think he actually <em> likes </em> me!” and this makes you smile. </p>
<p>After lapping up water, the kitten looks ready to fall asleep in Spencer’s lap. His hands cradle it gently, more gently than you could ever imagine, like every movement he makes is specifically calculated so that this tiny animal feels comfortable and at home with him. It mews and closes its eyes, and you see that he positively evaporates into a childish joy that looks rare on his face. He doesn’t want to tear himself away, but everyone is getting a little hungry, so he places the ball of fur on one of your pillows as if one wrong move might break him.</p>
<p>You and Spencer cut circles out of the dough, delicate work he’s surprisingly adept at. Lyn folds them, and then it just takes ten minutes to fry and then steam them all. </p>
<p>Your kitchen table only has two seats, so you all sit on the couch and use your living room coffee table. If you had been worried about lingering awkwardness between you and Spencer, Lyn is doing a wonderful job at defusing any tension, and you think that this was her plan all along, to reintroduce you to one another in a way where you get to bypass a lot of stumbling blocks, like when you each go to place a bowl in the sink and your hands brush and it shouldn’t send the lightning through you that it does.</p>
<p>“I’m gonna bring the little man back to my place. Be right back.”</p>
<p>Spencer seems disappointed for the cat to go. He spots you looking at him after Lyn leaves.</p>
<p>He scooches towards you as he goes for one of the last dumplings, using a fork to jab at it messily. “Animals don’t usually enjoy my presence. There’s a term my team uses for it, actually. The Reid Effect.”</p>
<p>“That seems a little rude?” It comes out as a question. You haven’t really considered how he exists in his workplace. He must be different there, or else exactly the same, though that can’t possibly go over well all the time. It makes you pleased, for some reason, to think of him burying some small-town sheriff in facts, some man who couldn’t care less but has to listen because this nerd outranks him.</p>
<p>“Something can be rude and technically correct, I think. I probably am a lot of the time. Dogs and kids just don’t really seem to like me. Well, most kids,” he amends. “It makes some amount of sense that cats would like me. They’re independent creatures.” </p>
<p>”Have you ever had one?”</p>
<p>“No,” he says regretfully. “I like him a lot, though. Did you know there’s a perceived inability to read their emotions, black cats? When they do studies, people just can’t figure out what they’re feeling.”</p>
<p>“I can see why you’d like him, then.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“I mean, when I first met you, I thought you were, you know, a little bit of a jerk, just based off of that one comment you made. And it got cleared up, but I couldn’t get a read on you for a while.” </p>
<p>“I felt similarly with you,” he admits. “Not that you were a jerk, of course not, just the reading part. I’m glad we’ve had the chance to get to know one another. I have to say, my days haven’t felt so… spontaneous in a while.”</p>
<p>You laugh at that. “Really? A private jet whisks you away every few days for an unknown amount of time, and <em> this </em> is spontaneity?”</p>
<p>“It’s refreshing. Carolyn is spontaneity personified.”</p>
<p>“If you want to know what college is like when you’re actually, you know, going at the usual age, hanging out with Lyn is a good way to get a feel for it.”</p>
<p> “She seems young.”</p>
<p>“She’s twenty six, I think? How old are you?” you ask, realizing you don’t know exactly. </p>
<p>“Twenty seven. A lot of people tell me I seem younger, in my line of work. That’s why Gideon used to use my title so adamantly to introduce me,” he says.</p>
<p>You dip a dumpling in some soy sauce, and your chopsticks have a firm command of the food. <span>He’s mentioned Gideon his old mentor, before, and he speaks of him almost reverently.</span>“You are exactly your age, Spencer. Don’t let anyone convince you you’re some kid or old man. You’re both, and that makes you like any other twenty seven year old.”</p>
<p>Lyn returns, cat still clinging to her shoulder for dear life, her eyes startlingly red. “I may have underestimated my allergies. And overestimated my ability to create a sustainable living environment. Two minutes in, this guy decided he really wanted to climb up my nightstand and eat my lipstick. He didn’t, like, totally succeed, but I’m not sure I can keep him in good conscience… or good health.” You know what she’s about to ask before she asks it. “Do you want him?” </p>
<p>The look on your face should be clear enough for her. “Lyn, all my plants would be poisonous to him. And I don’t like my stuff being knocked off the counter. Or all the hair and vet bills. I could go on. I don’t want a cat, I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“Alright, I’m sure that his cardboard box is still there, might be a little damp from the rain, though I guess since it’s all this little fella knows I’m sure it won’t be too uncomfortable.”</p>
<p>“I'd love to take him,” Spencer says quickly. “But I can’t. It’s just that, with my work, I’d need someone available to sit on short notice. Not just sit, but spend time with him if I’m away for days.”</p>
<p>When you started your day, you didn’t think you would end up with your two neighbors both looking at you, doe-eyed, united in the way they are wordlessly begging you to take care of a cat. </p>
<p>“I- okay, <em>fine</em>, I am available to cat-sit whenever needed. But he is not living here, understood? I like my furniture not all clawed up.” </p>
<p>Spencer crosses the room and scoops up the ball of fur meowing at him. He looks so pleased, you know there is no way you could have denied the request. </p>
<p>“Gonna name him, doc?” Lyn asks.</p>
<p>“He seems like an Erwin to me,” Spencer says, holding the small ball of black fur in his hands. His eyes are glowing.</p>
<p>“I think you’ll do a good job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to buy some very powerful antihistamines and sleep for the next twelve or so hours. If I show up to work looking like this, the kids are going to roast the shit out of me. Ruthless bastards.”</p>
<p>All of you say your goodbyes, Spencer thanking Lyn emphatically, and they exchange phone numbers. <span>Next week, he will ask you how to text someone photos, because not only does Lyn demand them, but so does Penelope Garcia.</span></p>
<p>“Erwin?” you ask Spencer.</p>
<p>“Well, yeah, after, um, Erwin Schrödinger?”</p>
<p>And he looks so delicately hesitant holding this kitten and a little bit embarrassed about the nerdy fucking name he’s chosen for it, you can’t bring yourself to laugh. Instead, you just shove those pesky feelings down a little deeper, and when he is gone you light your new eucalyptus candle and help yourself to another dumpling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Liquid Spinach</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You go for a walk, and then your curiosity gets the best of you.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“Jogging is very beneficial. It’s good for your legs and your feet. It’s also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>Charles M. Schultz</b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Tuesday morning, early May </b>
</p>
<p>One morning, when you have decided that it won’t rain today, you find you have the day off and a lot of restless energy so you are going to go on a long walk, goddammit, maybe even a jog. Yes, maybe you’re procrastinating because you got word from one of the old contacts you reached out to that they would like to take <em> another </em> one of your stories, and you’re putting off the final edits for some reason because you have always been a little bit afraid of success. So you put on some sneakers that should be a little more worn in than they are, and head out to enjoy the May flowers.</p>
<p>The park is beautiful and not overly crowded, but not so abandoned that you’re worried about potentially being murdered. You don’t know a ton of details from Spencer’s cases, but what he does tell you sticks like glue. In your fanny pack, apart from your keys and phone, is a taser and some pepper spray. And okay, twist your arm, there’s a small book, too, a pocket edition of <em> The Unbearable Lightness of Being </em> that you’re borrowing from the store. One of the perks of working at a used bookstore is that it is, in many ways, your own personal library.</p>
<p>The walk starts how it often does, where you loop around the park, stopping to drink from a fountain or pet dogs. Dogs are what make a park, really. You can’t think of the last time you were in a park and didn’t pet a stranger’s dog. You love the way they tug at their leashes, how the owners act as though it is an inconvenience to you instead of a delight.</p>
<p>And it really is a startlingly beautiful day, one of those days that sets your whole body singing with the way the sun washes everything in light. Oh and look, there’s a tree just off the edge of one of the paths that looks <em> perfect </em> for a break so you can crack open your book, how unfortunate that you can’t take a longer walk up that nearby hill, maybe next time. Your book falls open to a dog-eared page, and an underlined quote.</p>
<p>“And therein lies the whole of man's plight. Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing for repetition.”</p>
<p>It breaks your heart a little, in the best possible way, to know that this book was loved before you, so dearly that the pen underlining this has made an indent in the next page. The sun strikes it just so. This is your favorite part of used books, seeing a little piece of the soul who owned them before you. You leave this page folded, and then flip back to the beginning.</p>
<p>Lately, your life lately has been repetitive in a lovely way. The past month, you’ve settled into a comfortable routine with Spencer that all too quickly feels like something that’s always been a part of your life here. He’s been getting a lot better when it comes to knife skills, and has learned to trust your instincts when it comes to seasoning and what he still thinks is guesswork in the recipes. Erwin grows on you in a way that only a friend’s pet can, and Spencer does his part of carefully charting the little guy’s growth and precise weight. Lyn, for one, has been delighted to be fed your leftovers and even the meals you consider mistakes. She claims that another month of this might make her a vegetarian.</p>
<p>Whenever he gets called away on a case, Spencer calls to let you know, and you let yourself into his apartment to feed Erwin. And because he has taken it upon himself to become not only the most responsible pet owner known to man, but far more trusting than you, he’s given you a key to his place so that you can spend at least thirty minutes a day playing with the cat when he’s not there. </p>
<p>At some point, when you are lost in the pages and therefore useless to the rest of the world, you hear your name called out, in that definitive tone of voice that implies the speaker is not on their first try getting your attention. You snap your head up to see Derek Morgan, out on a run with a friend.</p>
<p>“Oh, hey,” you say. Your smile is that of someone who has been awoken from a good dream and is still adjusting to the world of the awake, and it feels that way, adjusting to the brightness of the park. </p>
<p>“There she is, I was starting to think I had the wrong girl.”</p>
<p>You start heading over to greet Derek and notice that the woman he’s with is <em> her</em>, the blonde who keeps showing up to Folio. She makes brief eye contact and gives you the same tight smile she makes when you hand her change.</p>
<p>Derek gives you a brief hug; though you’re sure he’s been jogging, he’s barely broken a sweat. “I’m not sure if you’ve met JJ before.”</p>
<p>She steps a little closer, extending a hand so you don’t have to come up with a lie about the woman who has never introduced herself to you despite knowing exactly who you are and who you have in common. </p>
<p>“Jennifer Jareau, communications liaison. So glad to finally meet you,” she says, shaking your hand firmly. You think she maintains eye contact for just a moment too long.</p>
<p>You’ve heard of JJ. Spencer has mentioned her a few times, referred to her as a good friend. “But then, the whole team is,” he had said a little too quickly. </p>
<p>You introduce yourself needlessly, and when she says your name, her voice curls around it like it’s another half-truth. JJ has been stopping by the store irregularly for the past month, and it has most definitely set Paul on edge, but he doesn’t speak to you about it, just makes himself scarce.</p>
<p>“Out for a jog?” Derek asks.</p>
<p>“Well, not exactly,” you say, holding up your book. “The day was just too nice. Had to slow down.”</p>
<p>Dereks says, “Attagirl. We were just about to grab some smoothies from a place I know nearby. You in?”</p>
<p>You start to protest out of politeness, but both of them are welcoming in a way you hadn’t anticipated, especially since you’ve only met Derek a couple times, and the last time was in an alley nearly a month ago. You wonder if he knows how that went. </p>
<p>“I’ve been meaning to nab that jalapeño popper recipe from you ever since Spence brought some leftovers to work,” JJ says encouragingly, so you acquiesce. </p>
<p>You remember making those last week, Spencer’s eyes red. <em> You’re a certified prodigy, why would you go to rub your eyes with the same hands you used to devein a pepper! </em> you had half laughed, half shouted at him as you went to get milk from the fridge.</p>
<p>“Oh, absolutely, I’ll write up the adjustments I made to it and send it to you. Let me give you my number.” It feels a little like you’re collecting the phone numbers of his coworkers. Three down, three to go. </p>
<p>The smoothie place is a short walk from the park, and along the way you listen to the two of them banter the way very old friends do, with Derek careful to bring you into the loop every now and then with questions. You wind up recounting how, exactly, Spencer ended up with a kitten, because apparently he’s been a little vague on the matter.</p>
<p>“Your friend just… showed up with a kitten in her purse?” JJ asks. </p>
<p>“My neighbor, Lyn. The little guy took to Spencer right away.”</p>
<p>Morgan says, “Huh. All this time and I never thought that Pretty Boy might benefit from a little bit of quick thinking. Never saw him owning a pet, but a cat just kinda makes sense.”</p>
<p>“Right? I’m sure if you’d asked him the day before about the logistics of owning a pet, he’d talk himself down. All this talk to Em about how getting a cat wouldn’t be feasible, but look at him now,” JJ replies.</p>
<p>At the cute little health food spot right off the main roads, Derek promises the two of you he knows the best thing on the menu. He leaves you and JJ to yourselves at a table on the sunny patio while he goes to order and, it seems, flirt with the server. </p>
<p>JJ immediately drops what has apparently been a very convincing act and says, “I’m so sorry for making you lie by omission. Thank you for not saying anything to Morgan.”</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah, it’s no problem. Can I ask why you kept coming by?” She bites her lip, appearing overly hesitant. “Or not, I mean, if it’s your business-”</p>
<p>“I definitely owe you some kind of explanation,” she says, cutting you off. “I’m sure it comes off as overprotective, I just had to see you in person. You’ve made quite the impression on Spencer.” </p>
<p>“He’s made an… impression on me.” How much does she know, exactly?</p>
<p>“He’s one of my best friends, and I felt like I was doing my due diligence. See, Spence, he doesn’t make friends easy. So thank you.” To you, JJ is giving off the impression of being a concerned older sibling who thinks the youngest has bitten off more than he can chew. </p>
<p>“Nothing to thank me for, really. He’s a good guy. I like him a lot. And his cat.”</p>
<p>“Nice of you to be taking so much care of him,” JJ says.</p>
<p>“Spencer just needed someone to watch Erwin, he got him all his shots straightaway, all the best food and toys. I just show up for feeding time.” This isn’t exactly true; Spencer has been very particular about how much socialization cats get on average from their owners, and on the stretches of time that he’s gone, you wind up in his apartment for hours at a time making sure that the kitten has a human to harass. You don’t mind; Spencer’s apartment is better for your writing than any overpriced coffee shop, or even Folio.</p>
<p>“I meant Spence- at first it seemed like a lot for him really fast, you know?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Well, a couple new friends, a pet all of a sudden? It’s just not like him.” </p>
<p>You shake your head, Spencer’s words from that night in the alley running through your mind. “But that’s good, right? I know you’ve known him for way longer, and I don’t want to say anything out of line, but… I don’t think it’s all that big a deal. I think it’s healthy for him to have these things outside of what you guys do. You have other people outside of the BAU, right?” </p>
<p>“Of course, I’ve got family, friends. Spence is the godfather to my son, actually.”</p>
<p>A glance to Derek and the server clearly flirting with him means you’ve probably got enough time to bring up something that’s been weighing on you. “And… well, what is he supposed to think, when anyone he knows outside of work is talked about in so much detail that there’s, um, a betting pool going on? About-”</p>
<p>“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. You <em> knew?</em> About the kiss pool?” JJ flushes a little from embarrassment but otherwise remains composed. She seems more used to thorny conversations than you, and clearly this has made her good at her job, or else it’s worked the other way around and her job has made her good at these interactions. </p>
<p>You, on the other hand, are making a deliberate but strained attempt to keep your voice unbothered, but this is something that would eat away at anyone. Every time he brings up a work conversation he’s had mentioning you, the bet crosses your mind, makes a puddle of anxiety in your stomach. Don’t FBI agents have something better to do with their time than wonder when their coworker will make a move on some girl he met?</p>
<p>You tap your fingers on the table. “I… heard about it.”</p>
<p>“That’s a little awkward, then. Maybe you’ll be glad to hear he put his foot down, asked us to call it off. Told us all that you two are just friends. I agree, it was a little presumptuous to put that on him.” She laughs lightly. “I mean, I’m not sure what we were thinking. It’s <em> Spencer</em>.”</p>
<p><em> Oh.</em> “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everyone’s, uh, concern for him, that he has a support system as strong as all of you. And I know that to me he’s just my very smart upstairs neighbor who finally went a week without slicing his finger on a cheese grater… It was a bit much, everyone else being so invested.” </p>
<p>“Well, we haven’t really had a social life of his to micromanage. I mean, I’ve known him for five years now, and I’ve never met someone he knows outside of work, let alone someone he spends so much time with. I’m sure I’ve made an awful first impression by sneaking around, but I was so curious.”</p>
<p>“You could have introduced yourself to me, you know,” you tell her. “I don’t bite.”</p>
<p>“At first I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot, I wanted to just meet you the way Garcia did, but now it’s really clear that wasn’t the right approach, mostly because I’m not Garcia. It didn’t feel right. Maybe working with so many profilers is rubbing off on me. It’s just... he <em> likes </em> you,” JJ says as Derek approaches with smoothies in hand. She says it like all the proper authorities have announced the earth is actually flat. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Don’t let him be such a perfectionist, okay?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” you start to ask again, and she shakes her head as Derek enters earshot, waving a napkin with a phone number written on it.</p>
<p>“So <em> that’s </em> why you wanted to come here,” JJ says wryly.</p>
<p>The three green smoothies he places on the table do not look or smell appealing, but this is deceptive. After the first dubious sip, it becomes apparent that yes, there’s spinach in this, but also banana and kiwi and honey. Enough honey fixes almost anything, and the spinach grounds the drink in a way. Certainly feels like you’re making up for the pierogi you doused in butter and sour cream last night. You’ve found yourself keeping Tums in your bag for Spencer when you’re making a dairy-heavy meal.</p>
<p>You clearly sound surprised when you say, “Wow,” and this wins a smile from Derek.</p>
<p>“Not bad, right? Reid mentioned you’re a vegetarian, but I figure there’s no harm in making sure you and the Pennsylvania Petite here get all your vitamins.” </p>
<p>Both of the agents’ phones ring, and the look on their faces is one of resignation. They know what this call means. JJ takes another sip as Derek flips open his phone, and she says to you, “Going to need all I can get, apparently.”</p>
<p>“JJ and I will be there in a sec. Got it.”  As Derek hangs up, your phone rings. </p>
<p>“Hey. Wheels up in thirty?” you ask.</p>
<p>“That can’t be all I call you for?” Spencer says on the other end, sounding actually concerned that maybe you need to spend more time together, if you’re guessing the topic of his call so easily. As if you haven’t cooked dinner together every night he’s been in town this month.</p>
<p>“Well, let’s just say it doesn’t take a profiler. Derek and JJ will fill you in, I’m sure,” you say, raising your eyebrows at the two agents as you take another sip. </p>
<p>“Well, the little doctor has already been fed once today, so don’t believe otherwise if he asks. He could do with another twenty minutes of enrichment and a little company. Also, I just went grocery shopping, so please don’t let the perishables in my fridge go to waste. We probably won’t be back for a few days, help yourself to anything. Are you with Derek and JJ right now? Did you go <em> running?</em>”</p>
<p>“No, but don’t say that like it’s so impossible. Stay safe. I’ll see you when I see you.”</p>
<p>“I’ll see you when I see you,” he repeats, and hangs up. It’s become an easy mantra to end phone calls with, this promise on your part to see him again, and the promise on his part to live.</p>
<p>“You’ve got your own mission, huh?” Derek asks.</p>
<p>“Well, you go get the bad guys. I’ll take care of the good guys’ cat.” </p>
<p>This is part of the repetition. It is not your favorite part, but it is a necessary one. For him to come back to you, he has to leave first.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Thursday afternoon </b>
</p>
<p>Spencer has told you not to expect the team back until Friday at the earliest. You have fed his cat, and hung out with him a few minutes before work. The first hour of your working day was spent picking up a shipment Paul ordered, a trunk of books. Sometimes he has you unload them, sometimes he doesn’t, but he always asks you to drive. He’s got an old Subaru, and on a day like this you take the metro to work, take his car and get things, and then hand him his car keys back when all that’s done. </p>
<p>Paul rushes out of work around noon, a few minutes before you’re gearing up to leave. “Can you stay late today?” he asks, nearly out the door already. “I’ve got a meeting. It was set up rather last minute.”</p>
<p>You had been planning on heading back to the apartment and checking on Erwin, maybe see if he’ll actually play with one of those expensive toys Spencer got for him. You also have to make it to the reading by three. Today’s read is <em> If You Give a Mouse a Cookie</em>. “I’ve got to be out of here by two,” you tell him. </p>
<p>Erwin can wait until later, and this gives you more than enough reason to stay and cook dinner at Spencer’s place to make up for lost time. Spencer has been very specific about how much company his cat should have. And you’ve been cooking there a lot, lately. Hey, did say not to let his groceries go to waste.</p>
<p>Paul nods and thanks you. His suspenders today are a fire hydrant red, and he’s got a messenger bag not dissimilar to Spencer’s, but one which looks much more dated. “I’ll try to be back by then. If not, you can lock up and go, I’ll reopen when I’m back.” </p>
<p>And then he is out the door and the bell tinkles lightly behind him. He goes on foot, and does not take his car, though you note this somewhat absently. When you first began working here and became aware of Paul’s drinking, you were concerned about the car parked out back, but it quickly became clear that he hates driving. </p>
<p>You try and focus on your reading. You can’t. There are not many customers at a small, well-hidden bookstore on a Thursday. Schools are still in session, and besides, it’s a sunny day, and no one is looking to come into a small, dimly lit space unless absolutely necessary. </p>
<p><em> Don’t do it</em>, you think to yourself. You keep thinking this for a little over twenty minutes, and then close your book and flip the sign on the front door to CLOSED.</p>
<p><em> It’s probably locked</em>, you think, as you make your way over to the basement door. It’s solid and heavy, because this place is pretty old. You’ve grown very attached to Folio, and you know every inch of the ground floor, which floorboards creak and which windows get the most sun. But you have never been in the basement.</p>
<p>Paul hired you a little over a year ago, over the phone. He told you his workshop was in the basement, and he considered it a private space. He then asked if you had any questions, and you proceeded to ask about how many hours you would be working. He likes that you don’t seem to care about what’s down there. And, for the most part, you didn’t.</p>
<p>But he has been acting different lately, more easily startled. You know something shady happens, that people go downstairs and leave with wrapped packages. You used to think it was maybe drugs, or something less dramatic, like selling rare books under the table so that he could avoid being taxed. Paul doesn’t trust authorities. </p>
<p>It worries you, that something might be going on, and that worry keeps gnawing at you and growing into something bordering on fear. The door is unlocked. Well, he did leave in a rush.</p>
<p>It is dark. This is a given for any basement. As you step down, you notice a change in temperature. Also nothing abnormal. It’s just a regular basement, with the lights off.</p>
<p>You have decided not to step off of the stairs. It is one of those dumb technicalities that you use to reason to yourself you’re doing nothing wrong by staying silent. <em> Well, I can say in good conscience that I never set foot in the basement. </em> You are also overwhelmed with fear at the idea of accidentally touching something and leaving fingerprints, or Paul noticing that you were down here.</p>
<p>So, at the very bottom step, you shine the dim light of your phone screen.</p>
<p><em> Oh</em>, you think, almost with disappointment.</p>
<p>It’s an office. The office of a messy person, sure, there are stacks of old books everywhere, but it’s got a comfy looking chair and a large desk littered with papers. The room itself isn’t very large. It’s odd, but not terrifying. </p>
<p>You try and peer at the table along the back wall. It is the only organized space. <em> Huh </em>, you think. You look at the table for a few minutes, trying to piece together what you see there, and then, satisfied, you go back upstairs. You even go so far as to wipe the doorknob with your sweater sleeve, as if Paul might check for prints. </p>
<p>You make yourself a cup of tea, content. You like the bones of this store, the awkward corners and wall to wall shelves, and the shelves that are just a little too narrow to barrel through. <span>They force you to move delicately, choose your path slowly. This place feels old, and resistant to technology, so you understand why Spencer pops up now and then with a cup of coffee and a book. You don’t want to have to leave it.</span></p>
<p><span>It is unrealistic to think that one peek downstairs will fix your problems, you know this, but what you saw on the table does not alarm you. If anything, it puts you at ease, banishes gore or hard drugs from your list of fears. No one is being hurt. Well, only the very rich and very dead,</span> <span>in Paul’s words, and your mindset is that the rich deserve to be scammed out of their money if you can manage it. And the living can’t hurt the dead; you just aren’t that powerful.</span></p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>First off, I wrote this chapter a little while ago, and lo and behold JJ and Derek actually do go jogging at one point on the show. Very proud of reading their dynamic correctly. Second, finals are all done! I'm working on some fun chapters that actually get the plot moving. Sorry that this one is a little light on Spencer, I had the hardest time writing JJ but I hope I did her justice. I'll post Wednesday &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Veggie Lo Mein</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There are good days and bad days and boring days. You have a bad day.<br/>content: depression, brief mention of suicide (can be avoided by not reading the last 2 paragraphs)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Stephen Fry</b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Friday afternoon</b>
</p>
<p>Spencer’s apartment lacks a fireplace, that’s the only way to put it. He’s lived in his space longer than you have in yours, and clearly sprawled out. It is cluttered in a very one-note type of way, with the books scattered all over the place, and newspapers stacked on a variety of surfaces (even his bathroom has an abundance of reading material). It’s crowded without feeling messy, which you like. You really like the couch. </p>
<p>His leather couch isn’t like the one your space came with, gray and clinical and made with some cheap fabric. His is old leather and smells like him, and contours itself to fit you just right, and you’ve come to love it. Sometimes the personal touch a person gives a place makes it so inviting, and this space is so undeniably Spencer, right down to the presence of Erwin on your laptop, that you want to fall asleep on the couch in front of a fireplace that doesn’t exist. </p>
<p>He mews at you. </p>
<p>“Don’t lie,” you tell Erwin. He mews again, tapping at your chest with one little paw. “I already fed you, Little Doctor. And you don’t want to play with any of the toys Spencer got you, so what?” </p>
<p>He begins smacking at the keys with his paw. </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s very productive, thanks sir.”</p>
<p>He might as well be your cat, with the amount of time you spend with him, but as long as the fur is all over Spencer’s apartment and not yours, you’ve got absolutely no complaints. You don’t even have to feed his fish; the tank is in his bedroom, and the feeder is on a timer.</p>
<p>You’ve fixed yourself an omelette with some of the ingredients in Spencer’s fridge, and rearranged it a little bit. You think the young doctor isn’t great at realizing when things go bad, so you put all of the things you need to use sooner on the top shelf of the fridge where he’ll grab them. He hasn’t got a monopoly on being smart, or reading people. </p>
<p>Whenever he calls to say he’s on his way back, you make yourself scarce so that he can have his own space. Personally, you’re saving a lot on groceries now that Spencer is buying some. You try and repay him whenever possible with leftovers or meals with post-it note instructions on how long to put them in the oven. You’ve noticed more kitchen appliances cropping up lately, most recently a food processor, and so you’ve been making an effort to come up here and cook.</p>
<p>It’s not normal for you to feel so comfortable in someone else’s home; maybe it’s because he isn’t actually here. As you head to work in the afternoon, you’re already on the metro when you remember what JJ said, and realize that it might not be normal for Spencer to let someone in like this. A woman crocheting in the seat opposite you returns your accidental smile.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Saturday morning. 7am.</b>
</p>
<p>It is a gray day. Not literally, not physically a gray day outside, but for you. In terms of the timing of this depressive episode, it’s a fucking exceptional day for it, warm and sunny even though it’s early May. The weight on your chest when you wake up in your bed this morning is heavy, but at least you don’t need to go to work. It is seven in the morning, and try as you might, you cannot fall back asleep.</p>
<p>You don’t think of yourself as an overly optimistic person, but you aren’t pessimistic either. You simply face things. Over the years, you’ve come to realize this is like any other challenge. If you push through and take care of yourself, it will fade, and remembering that makes all the difference. But it is a hard thing to remember.</p>
<p>This feeling will pass, but not if you stay in bed wondering why you feel this way despite how happy you have been lately. Knowing you have to feed a cat helps to provide some sense of urgency and makes you peel yourself out of the blankets.</p>
<p>So you get up, brush your teeth, put on your comfiest sweater, and make one of the largest cups of coffee you’ve ever stared down in your life. Then you go upstairs to feed Erwin.</p>
<p>It’s too early for Lyn to spend time with you; she won’t be up for hours. You find yourself grabbing the duffel bag stuffed deep in your closet and heading to the boxing gym, though you haven’t gone since the pancetta grease incident of a month ago. The wraps cover the now-fading scar on your left hand, stretching from your thumb’s second knuckle down to your wrist. You wonder how much will remain when it’s fully healed. </p>
<p>You prefer this to trying to go running. You prefer the weight of the bag and the way you have to center yourself, throw all of your weight behind your punches. It reminds you that while you feel empty, like you should not have the energy to hit the bag over and over again and pretend that will fix things, that this exhaustion is a trick. You refuse to believe in it.</p>
<p>“Hey, haven’t seen you in a while,” says the attendant from the front desk as you head out. Jay, you think his name is.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ve been a little bit busy. Got a cat,” you tell him, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie.</p>
<p>You call Sarah on the ride back from the gym. Your duffel bag rests on your knees. She yawns, and maybe hears something in your voice that is too familiar, and when you start the call with an apology for calling, she knows something is up.</p>
<p>“Hey, don’t ever apologize for reaching out. What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>You’re not one for crying on public transport (at least, not at ten in the morning) and you will yourself not to. Your voice comes out stiff and robotic instead. “Oh, just one of the empty days. Wanted to hear your voice. How are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m good. What have you had to eat today?”</p>
<p>When you inform her that your breakfast was a coffee and workout, she lays down the rules. “Please get something to eat, and have more water. A lot more. Take it easy, ‘kay? I know you think you need to be doing something, but sometimes you’ve just got to rest.”</p>
<p>“That’s the thing, though, I’ve got no reason to be tired.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes people just get sick, and no one tells them they should maybe try being healthy. Doctor’s orders, go take a damn nap. And… cry if you’ve got to, love. ”</p>
<p>“Okay. Thank you. How’s it going with you? Regretting that thesis yet?”</p>
<p>She remains on the phone with you as you walk home from the station, and as you take the elevator up to your floor. You wonder if she knows how much of a lifeline she is to you, and how you worry that you need her too much, that you’re a bother. You usually have these thoughts circling high above whenever you call her, even if it’s just to catch up, but they are flying lower today, vultures picking at the remains of your self-respect. </p>
<p>After a long shower you sink into Spencer’s couch, you want to get to work on a new book but can’t seem to focus all that much on the pages. You can’t bring yourself to wash any dishes, either, so you resign yourself to an apple for breakfast. Watching a young cat eat enthusiastically, his tags clicking with every bite, improves your mood a little, just enough that you decide to give in and see if tears will help. </p>
<p>It’s a good cry, you can tell a couple minutes in. Sarah had been right; you need some form of release to put this ache behind you for now, and then you can grasp the day a little more firmly. Erwin hops up on the couch with you as soon as he’s done eating, and this cheers you a little more.</p>
<p>When Spencer returns to his home he finds you half-asleep on his couch, with Erwin kneading on your stomach. The kitten is confused but supportive; he nuzzles at your chest and gives you one scratchy kiss, then hops up to greet his owner. You don’t fully realize he’s actually there until Spencer tentatively places a hand on your shoulder; he must have called to say he was on his way back, but you didn’t pick up. Your phone is dead in your tote bag.</p>
<p>You sniffle, embarrassed and a little groggy as you prop yourself up. Your arms are already beginning to feel sore, but it’s a comforting ache. “Oh, hey, I didn’t think you were headed back yet, I’m really sorry-”</p>
<p>“It’s no problem,” he says. “Stay right there.” And, in a very un-Spencer-like fashion, he doesn’t ask any questions yet, just goes to make some tea. You appreciate this time to gather yourself, to take some deep breaths and sit up straight. Tears still track your cheeks, which feel tight, and your eyes are puffy.</p>
<p>When he hands you your tea, brewed just the way you like it, of course, the mug’s warmth centers you as it often does. He does another un-Spencer-like thing and wraps his arms around you. You’re surprised, but it’s not unwelcome. </p>
<p>Your chest vibrates with his words when he says, “Hugging can help trigger a release of serotonin and oxytocin. On top of that, researchers have found that crying for extended periods of time can activate the parasympathetic nervous system, which helps you to feel better rested.” </p>
<p>You can’t hug back, since you’re holding the mug in your hands, so you bury your head in his neck and laugh a breathy sigh. For a second, it feels like the two of you are breathing one another in.</p>
<p>Then you draw back, because this kind of closeness is what he might think of as “complicated”. You certainly do.</p>
<p>“Thanks. I needed that.”</p>
<p>“Everything okay?”</p>
<p>And the thing is, everything is. Or, at least, everything is the same as it was yesterday, which was okay enough for you to keep on working at making it better. </p>
<p>“I’m just tired.” He turns this sentence over in his mind, it seems like, evaluating every corner of it, how it’s not a lie but not the whole truth, either. </p>
<p>“Is there anything I can do?”</p>
<p>“The tea is great, thank you. I should get out of your hair.” </p>
<p>As you move to stand up, he says quickly, “You can stay. I’m not doing anything the rest of the day. We could just stay in, order something. I’ve found myself missing takeout. No offense.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you have FBI stuff to do?” </p>
<p>“Not until Monday, if I’m lucky.”</p>
<p>Erwin hops up onto the couch and meows at him. Spencer ruffles his head. “Hey, bud. Enjoying the company?”</p>
<p>You realize that this scenario is what he described that night last month. How his voice had been raw as he said <em> “I go home. Alone. But today, when we landed, I thought… I could go home and see you.” </em></p>
<p>So you stay.</p>
<p>He doesn’t fix everything just by being there, not at all; this is one of those days where once you sat down you felt like you had nothing left inside of you, none of the energy that compels a person to go about their day successfully. But the crying and the nap and the presence of a kitten are helpful, and Spencer hums a little bit as he puts the contents of his go bag away. </p>
<p>You can barely see his room from your spot on the couch, just the glow coming from his fish tank and a glimpse of him as he crosses the room to pack his bag with fresh clothes. The tune (something classical, you’re assuming) makes you a little less exhausted. So does the green tea. </p>
<p>“Where did this case take you?” you ask once he’s placed his order for some Chinese food. A late lunch or early dinner, you’re not quite sure.</p>
<p>“A small town in Alaska. I think you’d have liked it, actually. We got put up in a little bed and breakfast. Very cozy.”</p>
<p>“Not sure I’d sleep too well in a place you had to visit.” </p>
<p>“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “How was your week?”</p>
<p>You would like to tell him that you read one of your own childhood favorites for the children at the after-school program, <em> If You Give a Mouse a Cookie</em>, an absolute classic, how it had been perfectly accompanied by baked goods one of the dads had brought, and you called your mother afterwards but got her voicemail. You want to tell him about how Erwin is getting better at sneaking up on you. How there is a new barista at your coffee shop who doesn’t charge for an extra shot of espresso. How the other day on the metro suddenly everyone realized they didn’t need their puffy winter coats anymore, and so people were carrying them or had them tied around their waist and you rejoiced in how warm everyone was. </p>
<p>You do tell him most of this, but not in a way that reveals what it all means to you, how much you love it when the world is caught off guard. You leave out so many of the small, personal details that have built up your week, because it would leave you raw and wanting him to give you those same details in exchange. </p>
<p>He tells you about the people who were saved, never the ones he puts away. You are both tiptoeing the same line in the sand and not speaking about it. Putting a name to this would put it in danger.</p>
<p>The food arrives, vegetable lo mein and spring rolls and more rice than either of you can finish. You try to teach him, unsuccessfully, how to use chopsticks, and then after eating you each fall back into your tasks on opposite ends of the couch. </p>
<p>He is re-reading <em> Dictionnaire philosophique </em> (because of course he is, why wouldn’t he be reading an encyclopedic dictionary in his free time) and you have gotten back to your writing. You find yourself writing in a notebook around him, even though you work more quickly on your laptop, because a pen and paper seem to better suit the kind of silence you two share.</p>
<p>He is comfortable with you in the most unexpected of ways; it’s been nearly a week since you last saw him, but it doesn’t feel that way. Every now and then he will read off a snippet he finds interesting, and does not ever expect you to say something in reply, just make eye contact and smile. When he’s gone, you feel his absence, sure, but when he’s back the two of you are as easy as if you’d seen one another that morning. You can see why he thinks friendship is far simpler than the alternative. But then, why do you want to be able to rest your head in his lap while he reads, or look at him over a page and blow him a kiss when he goes off on one of his tangents? Is it simpler to pretend you don’t want any of that? </p>
<p>At one point in the afternoon, when he sees your pen has stopped, he recites a quote, one of your favorites. How is it that he knows just how to strike you? </p>
<p>“‘I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our more stupid melancholy propensities, for is there anything more stupid than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold it fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?’”</p>
<p>The words sound beautiful when they fall from his lips, like they are at home there.</p>
<p>“Voltaire, but that’s from <em> Candide</em>. Satire.”</p>
<p>“This part, in particular, though, it drives home how there are terrible parts of living and we keep going anyway.”</p>
<p>You tell him, “I know. Really, I do.”</p>
<p>He has omitted the first part, which goes, “I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but I am still in love with life”. You don’t point this out to him, because you both know. </p>
<p>
  <span>You think this is Spencer Reid’s way of telling you he understands, as best he can. He tells you this, but is careful not to put a name to the problem. You kind of wish he would. You wish you did not have to watch your words so carefully. You wish that this line did not exist between the two of you, that there was nothing to separate your thoughts from what you get to tell him. </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“If there's a single lesson that life teaches us, it's that wishing doesn't make it so.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Lev Grossman, </b> <b> <em>The Magicians</em> </b></p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wow, this hit 200 kudos??? ty! The next chapter is fun, I promise.</p>
<p>I have no idea if this chapter reads as boring or not but I had a nice time writing it; I feel like it fleshes out the dynamic Spencer and the reader have rn. I feel oddly nervous to post this? I hope I did a good job portraying depression in a constructive way, but everyone's healing/coping is different ofc. I have a couple Sarahs in my life and honestly they're just the best people &lt;3 Sometimes you just gotta hear these words from someone else, but it's ok to let yourself rest. </p>
<p>Playing with the idea of adding end quotes to chapters... I don't think I'll do it super consistently but it just fit here. I also edited a couple chapters today because ao3 doesn't like the way I use italics, but no changes to content have been made.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Half a Quiche and a Tall Margarita</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You drop off a quiche in the morning and go out dancing in the evening. content: discussion about addiction, alcohol, binge drinking, mention of vomiting but nothing graphic</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First off- I'm overwhelmed by the support in the comments of the last chapter. From the bottom of my heart, thank you guys, I was so certain no one was gonna be interested in it and almost didn't include that chapter, but I really teared up reading some of the comments &lt;3<br/>Second- This is 2010, so  all these characters get to vibe out in the club to David Guetta and Pitbull... What I wouldn't give...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“It is impossible to understand addiction without asking what relief the addict finds, or hopes to find, in the drug or the addictive behaviour.”</b>
  </p>
  <p>― <b>Gabor Mate, <em>In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction</em></b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>A Friday at the end of May</b>
</p><p>Though you pride yourself on being observant, it isn’t until you’ve known Spencer for going on three months that you realize you have never seen him wearing short sleeves. You’ve written your phone number on his forearm, and occasionally he shoves his sweater sleeves up a little to wash dishes or undoes the buttons on his cuffs so he can chop something, but never past the crook of his elbow. </p><p>Today, when you knock on his door to present him with half of a quiche, because he got in late last night and you know there is not any food in his fridge currently, he appears rumpled, with a white t-shirt and sleepy eyes and more stubble than you’ve ever seen on him before.</p><p>He’s gotten a haircut; that is the very first thing you notice, because you love his wavy hair and the way it falls. Sometimes you resist the urge to ask what kind of conditioner he uses, if any at all, because he really should be conditioning and you know most men don’t and sometimes it shows in the way it is too frizzy. Now, his hair is tousled and unruly and sticking out at angles a mad scientist would envy. His voice is low; you realize that he must have been sleeping in. The BAU just got in from Boise, which is only two hours behind, but he is clearly very tired.</p><p>“I should have called ahead,” you say. You immediately feel foolish for having turned up without announcing yourself, even though you’ve done it before. You can hardly tear your eyes away from his boyish haircut, and you’re grateful to be holding onto something, because you would otherwise be tempted to ruffle it.</p><p>“No, wait, ‘s fine,” he mumbles, raking a hand through his hair and trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. You notice his arms, specifically the inside of his elbow and the needle track marks there. Of course, because he is Spencer, he notices you noticing.</p><p>“Coffee?” he asks. </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>He sets some water to heat up on his stovetop and then digs into the quiche with the ferocity of a man who has not eaten a home-cooked meal in days, which, you suppose, he hasn’t. This case took him away quickly after the last one. </p><p>There’s a book splayed open on his kitchen island, and you pick it up, thumb through it. <em> Northanger Abbey</em>. You note the dog-eared page. “I do the same thing,” you murmur, almost to yourself.</p><p>“I know. I saw you do it, forty one days ago. I was surprised, at the time.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I didn’t expect you to. I thought you might be more careful with them.”</p><p>“I’ve never understood the fuss about keeping some books brand new. They were written to be loved, it’s just how some people appreciate things.” You point to a passage he’s underlined without reading it. “See? We leave our marks on everything.”</p><p>“‘Skirmishes against the author’,” he says, a nearly inaudible mumble. You’re not sure you were even meant to hear him. He touches the scar on your hand. It doesn’t bother you to see it, paler than the surrounding skin. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, and this apology is different from all of the quickly made ones when it first happened, or after. You think this apology is for the mark itself and not the pain.</p><p>“You’re forgiven,” you tell him. This is what he has needed to hear, apparently. You haven’t said those words out loud to him before. They’re simple and yet they feel like too much, somehow. His hand is still on yours. <em> So, </em> you think. <em> This is what he is like when he wakes up</em>. A little slower in his movements, not as aware. You like it, you realize with a pang. You like it too much.</p><p>The kettle’s whistling pulls you out of your reverie, and he from his. He quickly goes to pour the hot water into the French press. He is low tech even in his habits, although you noticed an immersion blender appear in the kitchen last week, brand new. You made pesto with it.</p><p>“You cut your hair.” </p><p>Spencer sets a mug in front of you, and adds a lot of cream and sugar to his. The clinking of the spoon against his mug fills the room, and you firmly hold your hot coffee in your grasp before Erwin decides he needs to bat it off of the counter. He doesn’t succeed.</p><p>Though you think that the longer hair suits him more, this still looks good, makes him look younger. “Yeah- I don’t know if I should have. They’re teasing me at work. Does it look that bad?”</p><p><em> No! </em> “Don’t listen to them, it’s nice. It was nice long, too.”</p><p>“Oh. I thought you didn’t like it long?”</p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>“Well, you, uh, were always pushing it out of the way, before. I thought it was maybe a little too messy. Any plans today?” he asks hurriedly, cutting off any reply. You wanted to say <em> It was, but in a wonderful way. </em>Not that you would’ve.</p><p>And you do have plans, Lyn has roped you into another late night outing after weeks of begging, and you’ve agreed. This time, however, you’re prepared for the inevitability that it’s another wretched double date, and you’ve invited Garcia to tag along. </p><p>You’ve got to be honest with yourself; of late, you see Spencer Reid a few days out of the week, practically every day whenever he’s in town and your schedule allows it, and you need to get up off of his couch and get back out there. You’re friends. Good friends, but you cannot sit around waiting for him to decide he wants to relive the kiss that you’ve so carefully stopped yourself from thinking about. Mostly.</p><p>“Not until later. Much later. I’m going out, actually, with Lyn and Penelope. I think she might be bringing Emily and JJ if they can make it.” The thought of JJ interacting with Lyn after the latter has downed a few drinks makes your lips curve ever so slightly upwards. </p><p>“Lyn? Is she setting you up again?” he asks, and you must be imagining the flat note to his voice.</p><p>“I don’t think so. I think her and Clarissa might be exclusive now. No more double dates for me.” You carry on speaking, quickly. “Besides, that isn’t until around eight. I’ve got nothing on the docket until then.”</p><p>Sometimes you have conversations like this, in which the two of you talk too fast, chasing your sentences with a new subject and not letting the other answer questions that might reveal too much. It is one of the few uncomfortable elements of your friendship. You don’t lie to each other, but sometimes you speak truths too briskly to warrant a response that would slice you open.</p><p>“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he says, hesitant. “Let me know if it’s an invasion of your privacy, it’s just been on my mind.”</p><p>Your breath hitches and you can feel nerves setting in. “Yeah, what is it?”</p><p>“Last week Lyn told me that one of your stories got accepted to be published. Could I read it?”</p><p>That’s it? The nerves flee, for the most part. “Well, yeah, I guess so, it’s gonna be unleashed on the public soon enough anyways. I don’t know what you’ll make of it, though.”</p><p>“I’m sure I’ll find it delightful.”</p><p>“Hopefully not. I want it to spook you at least a little bit. You can read it on my laptop now, if you can find it in yourself to be exposed to a little blue light.”</p><p>“I think I can manage. For you.”</p><p>He sips his coffee and you try not to look at him too much as he quickly makes his first pass over your story, and then rereads it much more slowly. You try and focus on giving Erwin little ear scratches instead, and he repays you by trying to drink your coffee and, when you won't allow that, trying to swat your mug off of the counter again. Little devil man.</p><p>Over the light of the screen, so you don’t have to look at him, you ask, “Can I ask you something? Definitely a breach of your privacy. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want. But I’ve got to do my due diligence.”</p><p>He hums an affirmation, his eyes still a little drowsy and he sips some more of his sugary coffee, but you think he knows where you’re going with this. He must. You reach out, slowly, and trace the tracks on the inside of his elbow. The skin is soft there.</p><p>“You’re clean now, right?”</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Can I ask-”</p><p>“From Dilaudid. Two years, nine months, and twenty nine days. I could get more specific, if you’d like.” His voice is unreadable to you.</p><p>“You don’t have to. I’m sorry, I just wanted to check. I believe you.”</p><p>“No need to apologize. I haven’t wanted to use in a long time.”</p><p>You would like to tell him he should wear short sleeves more often, that his arms are beautiful, but that feels like it would give too much away. “Still. I’m here to talk, if you ever need to. Just give me a call. I’m sure you’ve got a sponsor or somebody else you could talk to, but in case you ever need me, I’m here. I’m pretty much always right here.”</p><p>“Thank you. I will.” And he does not seem conscious of the fact that his hand closes over yours and squeezes it as a gesture of thanks, because he is busy reading, and the unguarded thoughtlessness of this gesture proves to be too much for you. He does not react when you remove your hand from his and go to wash your mug instead.</p><p>When he’s finished reading your story for what seems like a third time, though it could be more, since it only takes him a minute, he says, “It seems like you think everyone is a little bit haunted,” and you agree, but secretly you think he is a little more haunted than most. Then he asks, “It was supposed to be a little bit funny, right?” and you say yes, it was, and then you make him point out all the funny parts anyway so that there is nothing unintentional about what you’ve made.</p><p>You close your laptop and stow it back in your tote bag, and he asks suddenly, “Do you participate in social media?” There’s an awkwardness to the question that puts a small smile on your face.</p><p>“Huh? You mean, do I have a Facebook? Yeah. But I don’t, like, put my whole private life on there. Friends tag me in photos sometimes. I run the Folio social media, too. Why do you ask? Do you want to add me?”</p><p>“I can’t, I don’t have Facebook or any of that. It’s just that, on our last case, the women overshared about their location and it’s part of how our unsub picked his victims. Do me a favor and make sure your security settings are up to date, okay? Please. Be safe.”</p><p>“Okay.” And the part of your mind that has not yet turned all of your thoughts for him into platonic ones is waiting for him to tack on the words “for me”. Your head is too full of him, lately.</p><p>Your eyes fall on the quote he has underlined. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>The Same Friday. Actually it’s Saturday, Technically? It’s nighttime.</b>
</p><p>Okay, <em> wow</em>, you’re drunk. You’re absolutely fucking sloshed, and it’s delightful to feel so light right now and so giddy and for your head to feel exquisitely empty. JJ is laughing at something so hard that there are tears in her eyes, and Penelope Garcia is bringing over some shots of something that look too green to actually be food safe.</p><p>Let’s rewind to about eight thirty, shall we? In which Lyn had told you the cab was here, and upon looking at you demanded that you go change. </p><p>“Why? What’s wrong with this?” You’d had on a pair of tight pants, the ones you thought made your ass look fantastic, and a cropped shirt, with a pair of sneakers. </p><p>“I’m going to need you to put on something about ten times sluttier and shoes a couple inches taller. I’d like you to at least <em> consider </em> looking at a man tonight, and I’d like some to be looking at you. If only to take the attention away from me.” She’d said it brusquely, in a tone of voice probably reserved for the problem students.</p><p>You’d been placed into one of her dresses, a short black number that left your legs feeling cold, and a pair of heels that made you feel like you’re stumbling (though now that you’re drunk you are miraculously walking better in them). And then you’d climbed into the cab with Lyn and Clarissa and, thankfully, you were promised a girls’ night, which means no Adam in sight. </p><p>Tonight’s destination was not the cozy little bar where Penelope drunk-dialed you back in March. No, tonight you are in a club with shadowy corners and flashing lights and people so packed like sardines that Spencer would probably be unable to even set foot in here.</p><p><em> Oops, thought of Spence, have to have another drink. </em> A dizzy giggle bubbles up in you as Penelope hands you the shot, and you toast to something unintelligible. This is a rule Lyn had devised about twenty minutes after you’d passed the coat-check and kept looking at your cell phone, uselessly, because he <em> knew </em> you were busy and he prefers calling, anyways. She also took your phone.</p><p>“The FBI knows how to turn the fuck up!” Clarissa shouts in your ear. She’s in a silky red slip that’s shockingly similar to JJ’s dress, and the two of them both have similar blonde hairstyles, parted the same way, something Lyn had rapidly pointed out with a devilish expression on her face. </p><p>You smile hazily and nod, bobbing to the beat, allowing yourself to be swept into the crowd by Emily. Your group is far from the largest in the place, but you are a striking collective of six women with very little interest in the men of the club, and this appears to make more of them approach you. A tall man with sandy hair tries to whisper something into Emily’s ear. She gives him a smile devoid of any humor, whispers something back, and he quickly ducks back into the crowd looking terrified. </p><p>“I’m gonna head to the bathroom,” Emily says to you. “Come with?” You nod, and comfortably reach out and tug at JJ’s arm, making a general<em> come on </em>wave. </p><p>Alcohol has broken down your lingering distrust made by JJ’s initial impression on you, and you feel a little bad that Lyn has been teasing her gently all night. You’ll tell her to knock it off later. The three of you are latched together like a barrel of monkeys, and you note absently that Garcia and Lyn are in the middle of an animated conversation while Clarissa obtains more free drinks from unsuspecting men hitting on her at the bar. </p><p>The beat of the music bleeds into the bright pink bathroom, but once the door is shut behind you, you’re all able to speak without shouting. It is like every bathroom in every club you’ve ever been to, with girls standing by the mirror or smoking something in the corner, a little too dirty for you when sober but most definitely cleaner than the men’s room next door.</p><p>“What did you say to that guy?” JJ asks, her voice lively. Emily raises her eyebrows, and the cool calm with which she carries herself is reassuring. She seems like the type to have a knife in her purse, but also several tubes of chapstick.</p><p>“Nothing that wasn’t true, if he kept saying things that I didn’t want to hear. How are you both doing?” </p><p>“I’m spectacular,” you say, and it’s the truth. You’ve propped yourself up on the ledge next to the sink, and the cool tile on your legs is a welcome relief from the humid atmosphere of the dance floor. JJ laughs, props herself up right next to you, legs swinging, as Emily heads into a stall. </p><p>“God, I haven’t had a night like this in ages, since I had Henry. I mean, we have nights where we go out with the team and have a few, but nothing like your girls out there.” She shakes her head, amazed. “And <em> Garcia </em>getting up on the bar like that! I feel like I’m back in college.”</p><p>“It’s been a while for me too,” you realize. “Usually Lyn just drags me out on these weird dates that I don’t know about ‘til five minutes before, but lately I thought she’d calmed down a little.” It’s you who’s calmed down, you realize, spending more of your free weekends in your apartment or with... Erwin. You simultaneously realize she must be giving you a break after the last double date ended the way it did. </p><p>You’ve been trying to shove all thoughts related to Spencer into that little tupperware container, shove it in the back of the fridge. A thought having to do with the ending of your last setup tries to lift the plastic lid. It fails, and you kick your legs blissfully, as if oblivious to the mental gymnastics your subconscious is going through to keep you happy.</p><p>JJ says, “Oh, my gosh, I know just who to set you up with. There’s this new guy on the second floor, one of the technical analysts for Sex Crimes, he seems so sweet and nerdy.”</p><p>While you’re drunk-girl-happy that JJ is comfortable enough with you to be resting her hand on your shoulder and smiling at you kindly (she really does have a compassionate look about her) you don’t know what to do with this information. You opt for, “Oh, no way, I am <em> so </em> tired of being set up. It just feels so damn <em> awkward.</em> I just want to meet someone. How’d you meet Henry’s dad?”</p><p>“Will.” When she says his name, her eyes light up. <em> I want that</em>, you think, and more thoughts try to break out of the tupperware. You keep the lid on. “We met on a case. He was a detective in New Orleans helping us out. We kept it secret, for god, I think it was a year? He moved here when I got pregnant with Henry.” </p><p>You try to whistle. You fail. “That’s a big change, coming to D.C. from Louisiana.” You’re just thinking out loud, you’ve never been to New Orleans, but she nods solemnly, a few too many times, giving away that she’s had a couple drinks and you don’t know how many of those oddly colored shots. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah a huge cultural shift, but I’m <em> so </em> glad he did. We had the most beautiful first date, you know? He’s old fashioned in a lot of ways, picked me up at seven and walked me back to the door after. And I think I’ve always known since then.”</p><p>“That sounds lovely,” you say. </p><p>“That’s not even counting the time when we staked out a bar on assignment. <em> He </em> thought that was a date, I didn’t. What is up with that? I feel like when I was younger, you knew when you were being asked out, right?”  She laughs, and it reverberates off of the candy pink walls. </p><p>A flush comes from Prentiss’ stall and she exits, washes her hands in the sink you’re sitting next to. “What do you mean?” she asks. </p><p>She leans against the wall, arms folded with an expectant look on her face, standing at an improbable angle considering she’s got some killer heels on. She’s holding her liquor the best, but by no means sober. Suddenly you can picture her in a police station, questioning a suspect, albeit with a different tone and maybe shorter shoes.</p><p>“I was just remembering, <em> years </em> ago, I brought Garcia with me to a football game Reid had invited me to. Turned out he thought it was a date, Gideon put him up to it. I guess that’s the thing about setups,” she says to you. “Not knowing it’s a setup is disastrous.” She giggles.</p><p>“I’ll say.” You laugh at the thought of him showing up to a football game <em> (Really? </em> a bitter part of you thinks. <em> Football?) </em>with his hair combed more than usual, maybe dressed in something special only to be worn on dates (Does he have a date outfit? Surely not.) only to be greeted by Penelope hurtling towards him with a foam finger. </p><p>Your laugh doesn’t feel all that fake even to you, because a little bit of it is you laughing at your own hope, and this probably saves you from a little bit of profiling. The lid of your tupperware container is yanked off by the news that Spencer had a crush on his beautiful coworker. It feels like what little hope you had (and you’re realizing now that you had been holding out hope for <em> something</em>) has been squelched, unknowingly, by a petite heeled boot. He is capable of trying to go on a date. He’s just not going to, not with you.</p><p>Emily fixes her eye makeup and you hop off the counter, wobbly, and she catches you. Damn heels. Before you guys leave the bathroom, you cast a cursory glance in the mirror, tug at the dress so you don’t feel like your legs are too on display.</p><p>“Thomas from Sex Crimes is a nice dude,” Emily says. You nod and say all the right things about how you’re sure he is, but you think you already know a lot more FBI agents than is normal for someone who is not themselves in law enforcement, but the whole time you’re thinking <em> Football! </em> It seems so unlike him, to want to sit in a crowded stadium of people watching a sport you know he doesn’t care about.</p><p>Then you jam the lid back onto your plastic container of thoughts about Spencer Reid, shove it back in the fridge, and exit the bathroom.</p>
<hr/><p>You see Lyn’s eyes are sparkling as she talks to Garcia, and despite the noise of the atmosphere, you imagine you can hear their laughter. If Penelope is like a bell chiming, Lyn is a cymbal crashing. Both are grounding.</p>
<hr/><p>Clarissa comes up to you and can sense, maybe with some sort of art-major superpowers, that you could do with another drink. She’s got a couple in her hands, and presents you with one. “Guys keep sending them over,” she tells you loudly with an exaggerated shrug. “Don’t worry, I watched the bartender make them. They haven’t been out of my sight. Cheers, baby,” and you clink your glasses together and you very quickly down what turns out to be an incredibly strong margarita. </p>
<hr/><p>You find yourself in the center of a crowd of people that may as well be waves rippling around you, for all you see them. Penelope is the first to go home, citing exhaustion and an irritated boyfriend waiting at home, and then JJ, going home to Will and Henry. Emily has a vivacity that should not surprise you, but does, and she remains with you for what must be an hour.</p>
<hr/><p>The pulsing of the music is the easiest thing in the world, and you think you experience a moment in which your world is exactly the same whether your eyes are open or closed. Emily taps your shoulder, leans in, says “I’m going to head back. Do you know where your friends are?” </p><p>Clarissa and Lyn are a few feet away, eyes only for each other, with a satellite of dudebros who seem both vaguely confused and aroused. You point them out to her. “Do you need a cab back?” Emily asks. She tells you where she lives, and you shake your head.</p><p>“I’ll head back with them,” you tell her. “Thank you.”</p><p>She heads over to your next door neighbor and presumably lets them know that she’s leaving, and to keep an eye on you, and then disperses the men with some kind of death glare. It suddenly strikes you that Emily Prentiss has definitely killed some men in her life. </p>
<hr/><p>You are kissing someone. You had been dancing with a tall, brown-haired stranger and now you are kissing him, at first with an ardor and determination you did not know you had in you, but then the lid on the tupperware pops off, and this is all wrong. You are furious at yourself for thinking of Spencer right now, for your hands to be wrapped in a strangers’ (<em>too short</em>) hair and that you have your mouth on his. His hands just don’t seem to be doing this right, you don’t move like you know one another, because you don’t. He is not a hurricane, just a man who happens to be kissing you, and kissing you <em> wrong</em>. </p><p>You break away, too suddenly, and his eyes open. “Fuck, man. I can’t do this. Sorry. It’s not you.” <em> You’re not him. </em> And you shove your way out of the club, which is much too hot all of a sudden.</p>
<hr/><p>There is a point when people who happen to be drunk happen to throw up because they’ve been drinking a liquid that is, technically, poison. You think you are about to throw up in the street right now, which would be just fine, because then at least vomit would cover up the taste of whatever liquor that man had been drinking.</p><p>But the fresh air hits you and the contents of your stomach stay down. You wonder what to do next. It would be good to have your phone, you think.</p><p>Lyn and Clarissa appear out of nowhere, your friend saying “You didn’t think I was gonna let you out of my sight, did you?” and then you are in a cab with the two of them kissing like they are not going to be allowed to kiss tomorrow and then in your building’s rickety elevator, and <em> then </em> you are vomiting but it’s fine because you’re in your own apartment and not outside of a club. </p><p>Clarissa is rubbing your back and you think that in between throwing up you call her your lesbian angel, which Lyn takes offense to, but only because that’s <em> her </em> title, goddamit. </p><p>“Sweetie, I’m gonna go home with Clare, she’s gotta let her dogs out, she can’t stay here tonight and I promised her I would go to this secret five AM concert. Are you gonna be good?”</p><p>Something about the quality of your nod tells Lyn that you will <em> not </em> be okay on your own, so she takes your phone out of her purse, says, “Don’t hate me, this is actually <em> perfect</em>,” then makes a call.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of any body else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object!”</strong>
  </p>
  <p>― <b>Jane Austen, </b> <em><b>Northanger Abbey</b> </em></p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry for the second note- just wanted to include that the Northanger Abbey quote here at the end is what Spencer underlined in his book. Wink wink nudge nudge. Also his line about "skirmishes against the author" is from one of my favorite poems of all time, "Marginalia", just wanted to give credit where credit is due. He do be making references.<br/>Had to acknowledge the famous boy band hair but I will not be letting him cut it any shorter lmao he's growing it from here on out. And conditioning. Thanks for reading, and I'll still be updating Monday!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Cinnamon Rolls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You're hungover, and you get some bad news.<br/>content: mentions of alcohol, mention of vomiting, blackout/brownout</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“Sometimes I just want to paint the words "It's my fault" across my forehead to save people the time of being pissed off at me.”</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>― Christina Westover</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Saturday, 8am. Fuck. </b>
</p>
<p>You notice two things when you wake up head-achingly early for a Saturday. First, you’ve got a pounding headache. Second, your apartment smells like cinnamon.</p>
<p>After a couple minutes of stubbornly shoving your face in your pillow and willing yourself to go back to sleep, you notice a third, more interesting detail. You’re wearing a large cotton t-shirt that does not belong to you. This is enough to make you cast your mind back to last night, which gets increasingly blurry after the second margarita; your memory is patchy, and stops altogether after the third and final bout of vomiting, so you decide to try sitting up instead.</p>
<p><em> Ow</em>. Too fast. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, along with a couple of ibuprofen, and you down both. </p>
<p>Making it out of your bed is an endeavor, because the blankets have been tucked in around you so tightly that trying to move is difficult. You feel, briefly, like a burrito, or maybe the cheese in a stuffed-crust pizza- you’re hungry. Once you’ve escaped, you take stock of your messy hair and the fact that the taste inside of your mouth is like something crawled in there to die. The shirt is a pale blue, and falls almost to your knees, over your underwear.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” you groan to yourself as you grab your towel off its hook and make for your bathroom. Each footstep syncs up to the gong ringing in your skull. “Fuck this.”</p>
<p>You do not expect to see Spencer Reid in your kitchen, icing cinnamon rolls. “Strong language,” he remarks, without looking up. He’s in the clothes he wears when he isn’t working, which are almost exactly the same as when he <em> is </em> working except he’s got no tie or vest, and his usual button-up is open. He’s taken his converse off at the door and his socks are mismatched, one purple with small smiley faces on it, and one with yellow and blue stripes. He’s tucked one of your kitchen towels into his waistband and is in the process of piping what appears to be homemade icing onto fresh cinnamon rolls. </p>
<p>You spot your couch, which has one of your small knit blankets folded up neater than you’ve ever arranged any of them, and the throw pillows are out of place. He clearly slept here.</p>
<p>You're confused, and feeling sick, and very tired. While he would usually be a welcome sight, you’ve got no clue how he got in, and something in you is telling you you’re angry at him. “What the hell?”</p>
<p>Then he looks up, quickly looking away, flustered at the sight of you in a large shirt and little else. “Someone’s up early. I take it you experienced a brownout? Maybe a blackout?”</p>
<p>“I- a brownout, I guess. Can’t ever sleep with a hangover.”</p>
<p>“You know, alcohol disrupts the REM cycle.”</p>
<p>“Why are you here?”</p>
<p>“Lyn called me from your phone around four in the morning, asked if I could babysit- her word for it, not mine. You were in rough shape. Fun night, it sounds like.” You don’t have the energy to process the edge of acidity in his voice. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I guess. I’m gonna… I’m gonna go take a shower. Smells great,” you say, and walk quickly past the kitchen and take a right turn into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. You brush your teeth. Wash your face. Shower. Brush your teeth <em> again</em>. </p>
<p>It comes back in bits and pieces as the bathroom mirror fogs up, your reaction to some inconsequential kiss and the subsequent cab ride home, how Lyn had called Spencer. She did say “babysit”, you remember now. And he had turned up, because he’s used to taking phone calls at odd hours that take him much further than one flight of stairs. </p>
<p>Looking at the shirt on your (freshly cleaned?) bathroom floor, you start to recall how you got it. “Oh no,” you say out loud, because some thoughts are too noisy to remain confined to a skull already crowded with pain. You remember little else after Lyn had presented you with it, except how cold the kitchen tile was on your bare feet. The kitchen? That can’t be right. </p>
<p>You wrap yourself tightly in the towel and rush past the kitchen, making haphazard eye contact with Spencer as he cleans your kitchen counter, and slam the door to your bedroom. After getting dressed, you head back out and sit at your kitchen counter on the barstool usually reserved for people who wait for you to finish cooking. Wordlessly, Spencer pushes a mug towards you, piping hot.</p>
<p>The coffee is delicious and welcoming; he knows exactly how you like it, and has apparently taken it upon himself to become familiar with your kitchen appliances. The espresso machine is one of your rare extravagances, and you think it’s more than paid for itself over time. </p>
<p>“Sorry about Lyn,” you say. “I didn’t ask her to take the shirt off your back, just so you know. I think she thought it’d be funny.”</p>
<p>He tops off his own coffee mug. Clearly, he’s been able to change his clothes since then. “She told me she didn’t know where you keep your pajamas, and I wasn’t about to try and argue with her. She said she was running late for something?”</p>
<p>“Uh huh.” You don’t elaborate. “Did you make these from scratch?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I wasn’t able to sleep much.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about that, I didn’t ask her to get you, I swear. I would have been fine on my own.”</p>
<p>“It’s not all her fault, I rarely sleep well. And I don’t mind,” he says softly, his voice like honey. “I checked on you a couple times, made sure you were on your side in case anything happened. I’m glad she knew she could call me.”</p>
<p>You cannot remember this, but you can now account for this morning’s cocoon. That also explains the water and pills on your nightstand. Not that Lyn doesn’t care, it just isn’t something she would have thought to do. If Lyn had put you into your bed last night, you would have woken up to a lukewarm energy drink and a bowl of cashews. It’s happened before.</p>
<p>You reach for a roll, and quickly drop it on a plate before it burns your fingers too much. It’s larger than your fist and piping hot. “Are these any good?”</p>
<p>“They should be. I find baking is more like working in a lab than cooking. I had this recipe memorized and saw I could make them with the ingredients here, and I thought you wouldn’t mind.”</p>
<p>“Of course not. They’re a great hangover food, honestly, just the right amount of grease.” You dig into it with a fork, watch the steam curl from the chewy dough. </p>
<p>“Alcohol intake releases galanin, a neurochemical that promotes the desire for fatty foods. Is your headache bad?”</p>
<p>“Getting better,” you say, wincing at the reminder. “I don’t need to know why I’ve got that. Last night really got away from me- your girl sure knows how to party.”</p>
<p>He cracks a smile. “It’s hard to keep pace with Prentiss, from what I’ve seen.”</p>
<p>“I was talking about JJ, actually.” He seems surprised. “Oh, please. Even a mother gets to go a little wild sometimes. You never told me that you guys went out once.”</p>
<p>You shouldn’t derive the kind of pleasure that you do from seeing him almost choke on his coffee, but life is full of little victories. “Well, we didn’t. Not really.”</p>
<p>You take a bite of the roll; it’s soft and fluffy, with the icing melting down the sides. You think you can detect some notes of maple. <em> It's delicious, </em>you think, almost sullenly. “I know, she invited Penelope. A real shame. You two would have been cute together. I guess I’m just surprised it never came up.” </p>
<p>He doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with your presumption. He clears his throat with a delicate cough, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, I’m glad nothing ever happened between us. She’s one of my best friends now, and I don’t think she ever saw me that way.”</p>
<p>You hum indifferently, or what you hope is indifference. He asks, “Any relevant information you’d like to provide me with about last night? You know, while we’re on the subject of surprises.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“We have over a million nerve endings on our lips, you know. They’re the most sensitive part of the human body and the most exposed erogenous zone.”</p>
<p>Now it’s your turn to stop, mid-bite, so you don’t choke on your food. “Gross. What did Lyn say to you?”</p>
<p>There’s a curtness to his voice again when he replies. “Why? Something you don’t want me to know about?” </p>
<p><em> Shit.</em> “No. Nothing you particularly <em> need </em> to know about, either.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, well I’m not so sure Clarissa knew that,” he says, too casually, peering at you over his coffee. “So you… met someone?”</p>
<p>You cringe. “I wouldn't put it like that, no.”</p>
<p>“You were kissing a stranger, then?”</p>
<p>Time to go on the offensive. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you sound upset.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t respond right away, just sizes you up in a way you don’t like. “I’ve got no reason to be.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. <em> Stop </em> profiling me,” you snap when you watch his gaze flicker from your eyes to your now-crossed arms. “This isn’t an interview. I’m not a <em> criminal </em> for kissing someone because I had a few too many. It didn’t mean anything.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Do you do that a lot?”</p>
<p>“Do what?”</p>
<p>“Kiss people and not mean it.”</p>
<p>You bring your hands to your temple. You feel like you’ve gotten the air knocked out of you, and a pressure settles on your chest that makes it hard to breathe it back in. “Spencer, I don’t want to talk about this with you. Quite frankly, it’s none of your business.”</p>
<p>“Why not? We’re friends.” </p>
<p>It strikes you that the appearance of him, still lightly dusted with flour, hair unruly after a bad night’s sleep and drinking out of a mug shaped like a raccoon (yeah, the mug handle is the tail), would be wonderfully domestic under other circumstances. Instead, it’s tinged with a bitterness you can’t quite place. Surely not jealousy?</p>
<p>“‘Why not?’ Are you kidding me right now? Rewind, genius. You don’t get to ask me about people I’m kissing because we kissed and it’s <em> weird</em>.” </p>
<p>“Why? If it didn’t mean anything.”</p>
<p>He can’t possibly think that, right? “Are you being deliberately stupid? Seriously? We’re friends, Spence, but we can’t talk about this. I don’t want to.”</p>
<p>“Alright. My apologies. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or… bring that up, if you don’t want me to.” He seems to really mean it. “Can I ask something, though?”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>“How much do you remember?” Your response is a shrug, and this seems to disappoint him. “What’s the tupperware?” </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Last night, I mean we didn’t... talk for long, but, when we were in the kitchen, you said ‘so much for keeping the lid on the tupperware’. What does that mean?”</p>
<p>You talked to him last night? “I think you must have misheard me,” you mumble. </p>
<p>He shakes his head. “No, I’m fairly certain I remember it perfectly. I could walk you through a cognitive interview, if you’d like. We’ve gotten people to remember smaller details from more complicated scenarios. I’m curious. I think you might like having that memory back.”</p>
<p>You briefly consider lying to him, then dismiss it as a near impossibility. “You’re too curious about everything. I said drop it, alright? I don’t need you to analyze me all the time and I don’t want to deal with all of your profiler shit right now.”</p>
<p>Maybe it’s your barbed tone, but then he says your name, then, imploringly, like it’s a question, and this makes you look up. He seems… sad?</p>
<p>“What, Spencer?” </p>
<p>“I- I don’t know. Is everything okay? I didn’t mean to overstep there. Do you not remember much before you went to bed?”</p>
<p>For someone with a perfect memory, he keeps asking this. “No. Why? What happened?” He shakes his head.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, then. You can let me know if I ever say or ask anything you’re not comfortable with. I didn’t mean to. I’m just trying to help.”</p>
<p>You should know this. It’s why he slept on your awful, boxy couch and woke up at some ridiculous hour and baked breakfast from scratch, why he made you a cup of coffee exactly the way you like it. Maybe it’s just because it’s Spencer and he’s a man who has grown on you too quickly far too soon, and he’s looking at you with impossibly large, concerned eyes, but you almost want to say yes to a cognitive interview. You’d like to remember Spencer placing you in your bed, whatever it was that you talked about. But your better judgement tells you that you don’t want him peering inside your head, so instead you choose to avert your eyes. </p>
<p>“I promise I’ll wash your shirt and get it back to you. Sorry to take up so much of your time. I know you don’t get a ton of time off. So thanks for taking care of me.”</p>
<p>You hop off of the barstool and pack up the remaining cinnamon rolls. You’ve only made it through half of yours, which is a shame, because it really is good, but you’ve lost your appetite with him looking at you all forlorn like that. When you try to present the container to him, he won’t accept, despite you trying to place it straight into his hands. He rests his hands over yours, absently tracing your scar with his right thumb.</p>
<p>“Hey, hey, these are yours. Consider them a thank you for all the help you’ve given me so far. Garcia is still bugging me for that vegan chili recipe from a few weeks back.”</p>
<p>You close your eyes, tell yourself to breathe, to see things a little more clearly, but it’s hard to accept something from him. It makes you feel guilty, somehow. “Okay. Thanks. They really are amazing. Did you modify the recipe?”</p>
<p>When he says “Nope,” he pops the “p” triumphantly, and this brings a small smile to your face. A stickler for following the rules, this guy. </p>
<p>Once he’s left, you manage to finish the roll you were working on, then another, as you run through the conversation in your head. Trying to sort out your feelings for Spencer is complicated. To you, there’s an intimacy to a food where every inch was prepared with care, touched by someone you care about. </p>
<p>Your phone buzzes on the other side of the apartment, and you follow the sound to your living room, where it’s charging. You’ve got three missed calls, one of which is from Sarah around three in the morning, when Lyn still had your phone.</p>
<p>Sarah’s call is a drunk-dial, an effusive message about how she misses you and how she can easily wind up in D.C. soon over the summer. The thought of her visiting is a welcome one, and you resolve to call her. You wonder what she would think of Spencer, should she meet him in person, and then the image is washed away by the idea of Sarah and Lyn colliding. They feel like two wholly different worlds.</p>
<p>The other two calls are from Paul Winter, one at five in the morning, and another at seven. He left a voicemail.</p>
<p>Even before you listen to it, this strikes you as unusual for a plethora of reasons, first and foremost because Paul rarely calls you on a day when you aren’t working, and he’s never asked you to come in on a weekend off. </p>
<p>The sound isn’t great, sort of patchy, and he cuts out in some places, but the last sentence comes through loud and clear. “There’s no need for you to come into work on Monday, or ever again.” And then there is the sound of breaking glass, and something that could either be a sob or some wretched laughter, and the message ends.</p><hr/>
<p>Heart pounding and head still aching a bit, but fueled by the sugar from breakfast, you storm into Folio. The door is locked, but you’ve got a key. </p>
<p>“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say to him, a little too loudly, across the room. What’s he going to do? Fire you again? “You’re going to fire me over the phone? On what grounds?” </p>
<p>Paul looks up from behind the register, sheepishly. Whatever his state of mind was when he left the message this morning, he’s the picture of innocence now, hunched over; who would believe someone with green suspenders and a worn wooden cane would be up to anything? <em> Who, me, officer? </em> A short woman in expensive-looking shoes is in the process of purchasing an ancient looking tome you’ve never seen before in your life, which feels absurd because you’ve stocked most of the shelves and you don’t carry anything this old. Why is she here when the store is locked? </p>
<p>“What the hell?” you find yourself saying for the second time today. She heads out quickly, head deliberately facing down.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry to have had to let you go in this way, but we just haven’t got the money to keep you on. I’ll be running it by myself from here on out.”</p>
<p>“That’s nonsense,” you say. “I know you can afford to pay me more than what you are. I know <em> business </em> seems to be going just fine for you.” You’ve seen the passports stacked along the table in the basement.</p>
<p>He doesn’t miss the emphasis you place on the word as he busies himself with arranging the receipts. “Really, dear, I’m afraid you have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>With too much desperation, you say, “Level with me. Tell me <em> why </em> this is happening now. I’ve been a model employee. What’s going on?”</p>
<p>He fixes you with a hard, searching stare, watery gray eyes trying to assess where you stand. Yes, it’s been obvious that something illegal has been occurring, and it’s probably why he’s only got one employee. It’s a small bookstore, but he does far more work here than you would expect for a man of his age, presumably to keep costs down. Even with you working most days a week, the store isn’t open at the most optimal hours, and he has days where he’ll just flip the sign to CLOSED if he feels there won’t be enough foot-traffic. </p>
<p>Paul sighs and gestures for you to sit down. “Tell me, dear. Do you want to have this conversation?”</p>
<p>You hesitate, but there’s a reckless anger that pushes you to nod. “Absolutely.”</p>
<p>He heaves a sigh. “I hired you because you seemed curious, but smart enough to know where to draw the line. That was important to me, that you knew there was a line.”</p>
<p>You say nothing, just rest your hands on the table, fingers interlaced. You tap, absently, at your scar with your right thumb. You are sitting in Folio, but it feels wrong, it feels like you no longer have a foot in the world you have been a part of, the world gave you precious time to yourself. You do not want to go back to the rat race that is working multiple minimum wage jobs.</p>
<p>“I had a whole slew of applicants when my son moved away, kid wanted nothing to do with this place and I let him go. If you love something, right? I love him.” Paul nods absently. He is normally fastidious about keeping his face clean-shaven, but there is some stubble growing. </p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>“Some of them that I interviewed were curious and asked too many questions. Didn’t want that. A lot of people in my position might think, hey, get yourself a stupid one, they won’t poke around. But the thing about the stupid ones is once they do eventually wind up curious then they’re not smart enough to stop themselves from poking. But you? Quiet, composed, able to keep your head down. I didn’t even care that you would read half the time, or have your friends by, since you would take the car and make those long trips to the estates if I needed you to. I don’t drive much anymore, you know this. So you were smart enough to keep the place going and point the regulars to where they could find me. You kept up appearances. Turned this place into a half decent bookstore, as if that’s what I needed it to be.”</p>
<p>A feeling of pride wells up in you despite yourself. “So why now? What changed?”</p>
<p>“It makes sense that you’d start asking eventually, if there was a change, business picking up and all. But you put forth exactly the right question. I wouldn’t punish you for wanting to know if I was hurting anyone, cause I’m not. I’m not a bad man. But something about you draws the feds like flies, and I won’t have that.”</p>
<p>You fix your shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s not convincing.</p>
<p>“The blonde? She reeks of pork. Tell me I’m wrong. Nothing against you, honey, I just can’t have that here.”</p>
<p>JJ stopped coming by weeks ago, but he’s right. Everything about the way she carries herself screams <em> cop</em>. “Paul,” you implore, “she was here due to a personal reason. She won’t be back. The only thing that would be suspicious is if you fired me. Because then what’s stopping me from calling her and telling her she should get a warrant? This conversation alone is probably grounds for her to go to a judge.”</p>
<p>His demeanor goes from that of a harsh but understanding boss to someone who is definitely not to be fucked with. You think he might be sober right now, or else sobering up. “I don’t think you would be willing to roll the dice that being associated with what I’m doing wouldn’t get you a bit of time, too. You throw me under the bus, I bring you there with me. I’ve got no compunctions about lying about the extent of your involvement. Understood?”</p>
<p>“Deal,” you say confidently. This surprises him. The assurance in your voice is false, but you don’t think he can tell. “Go for it. Hire me back and I can’t call in a tip without screwing us both over. Hire me back now that I explicitly know something illegal is occurring on the premises, and I have as much stake in this as you if you’re busted.”</p>
<p>Paul appears to consider this. You think he really does, plays out both scenarios. But he is a cautious man, or else can see through you better than you thought, because he shakes his head and that is that. Maybe he thinks he’s calling your bluff. </p>
<p>He tells you that you can take a cardboard box and gather your things while you’re here. You collect your knit blanket from the counter. Then you make the choice to start crying. It isn’t hard; you’ve just lost your job.</p>
<p>He gives you your space, meanders over to another side of the store. The tears of young women are a powerful weapon. You make a point of noisily opening your drawer of the desk, gathering your tea bags and a spare charger. You jimmy his drawer open, intending only to take his (mostly empty) bottle of Johnny Walker, when you see there is a notebook. You’ve seen this before, but never really attached meaning to it. You hesitate, then tear a page from the middle. You ball it up quickly, and shove it into the corner of your cardboard box, cover it and the whiskey bottle with the blanket. On top, you place your so-ugly-they’re-cute-because-they-were-made-by-children mugs. </p>
<p>You exit the building without so much as a cursory fuck you glance at Paul, because you’re a little scared he might see a small victory in your eyes. As soon as you round the corner, tears strike you for real, because <em> oh god no I’m out of a job</em>, and you find yourself getting sick in a nearby trash can.</p>
<p>A shame. The cinnamon rolls really had been good.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What's this? Some plot? Doesn't sound like me, but okay... (Yes, Spencer cleaned the bathroom floor, I'm a sucker for Domestic Reid).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Grilled Cheese</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You talk to Lyn about the situation you've landed yourself in.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>— André Malraux</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Sunday</b>
</p>
<p>Carolyn Valdes makes a mean grilled cheese. </p>
<p>You discovered this when you first met her, several months ago, and this meeting involved an incident having to do with a hairdryer, a broken heel, and some very strong glue. After you’d helped to resolve her situation, she invited you in and made one of the best grilled cheese sandwiches you’d ever eaten in your life. She has been breaking into your apartment ever since.</p>
<p>So when you find it in yourself to knock at her door the next day, at first she begins to complain about waking her up so early, despite the fact that it is now one in the afternoon. But then her warm brown eyes take you in, sleep-deprived and shaking with anxiety, and she quickly ushers you past her cluttered living room into her cluttered kitchen, and turns on the stove. She is reaching for the bread when she asks, “Damn. What did he do?”</p>
<p>“What?” This throws you off; does Lyn already know Paul fired you, somehow?</p>
<p>“Doctor Big Eyes. Did he pull something aloof and self-sacrificing again?”</p>
<p>Lyn is far too aware of the minutiae of your life. “Oh, no. This isn’t about Spencer. I… I got fired.”</p>
<p>“What the fuck, why?”</p>
<p>You explain as best you possibly can about how you had figured Paul had to be doing something illegal, because sales at the store just weren’t enough to keep it going. How, once you became associated with federal agents, he cut you loose. If you tell the cops, he’s going to claim you knew more than you did, and bring you down with him. Which sucks, because you knew barely <em> anything</em>. And you were certainly never paid any better for not knowing it.</p>
<p>Lyn lets out a low whistle as she butters a fourth slice of bread. The panda onesie she’s wearing is really accentuated by the dark circles of smudged makeup around her eyes. Her short black hair is up in sharp pigtails. “So. What are you going to do?”</p>
<p>You set down the piece of paper you had taken from Paul’s locked desk drawer, flatten it on her dining room table. Lyn’s apartment is pretty much the same as yours, save for the clutter. In any given room it looks like the makeup aisle and art supply store got into a fight, and neither won. It’s also filled with odd things definitely left out on the street, more furniture than you’ve got and planters from yard sales. Something about the place makes you think of a nest.</p>
<p>“I took this on my way out. It’s a letter.”</p>
<p>“You sneaky minx,” she says. “To Paul?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so. It’s addressed to Philip Van Buskirk. I looked him up, he was a Confederate soldier during the Civil War. Now obviously, over time, people lose their letters or never held onto them in the first place. But I did some more digging, got a subscription to a database of historical documents.” You jab the notebook paper and barely notice that your hand is shaking. “The handwriting looks like it’s almost an exact match for this soldier. But this letter is no big deal to most collectors or historians, and they’d be able to tell with close inspection that it’s approximate at best. But some people like their war memorabilia, and apparently there’s someone in the area with a mostly complete collection of his correspondence.”</p>
<p>Realization is dawning on Lyn. “So it would be worth a good chunk of change for <em> him </em> and his specific collection. But of course some dead racist couldn’t have written this in a spiral notebook.”</p>
<p>“He’s forging stuff, and this is just practice. That’s gotta be it, why the basement smells like glue and he gets these rich weirdos in the shop. And if he’s forging this, then he could be doing other stuff. I went down there, Lyn, and... he’s passing off documents as authentic that are a lot more valuable than just letters. I don’t think he’s making passports, that seems a lot tougher from what I’ve looked into and what his skill set seems to be, but he moves them.” </p>
<p>You launch into a long-winded, increasingly gesticular explanation of how you think he must be forging whole manuscripts and books, it would explain <em> so much</em>, you had suspected something like this since you peered into the basement last month, and Lyn peers at you. </p>
<p>Spatula in hand, panda onesie or not, she is still a force to be reckoned with. “Honey? Did you sleep at all last night?” </p>
<p>The love that blossoms in you at the fact that she isn’t mad at you for not reporting a crime is secondary to the burning in your eyes that comes from getting only a couple of hours’ rest.</p>
<p>You wave away her question. “So do you think this is enough for a warrant? I mean, he practically told me shady shit is going down.”</p>
<p>“Slow down.” She gets you a glass of water, forces you to drink some. “Think. Why have you avoided contacting the police for this long?”</p>
<p>Shame has been bitterly steeping all night, and this question hits hard. “I didn’t want to lose this gig. I <em> knew </em> it was too good to be true. And he said he wasn’t hurting anybody. I believed him, and… he was right, technically. He’s just making fake stuff. And selling it.”</p>
<p>“What do you get out of this if you turn him in? Besides the satisfaction that this guy has been screwed over. And like, upholding the law, or whatever.”</p>
<p>Not your job, that’s for sure. “Pretty much just screwing him over. And saving my own ass. He… he said he would drag me down with him, lie and say that I was involved more than I let on.”</p>
<p>“Were you?” </p>
<p>“No!” She raises her rands in a<em> hey, I don’t judge </em> gesture. “I just suspected something was happening.”</p>
<p>“Did you check it out?”</p>
<p>“Not exactly. Okay, I suspected, when I saw his setup in the basement. It was all pretty normal, but there was this one table along the back wall with what looked like dozens of passports.” This feels <em> so good </em>to say out loud, and to not have to worry about Lyn’s response. </p>
<p>At the time, seeing them hadn’t bothered you. You had connected some of the dots,</p>
<p>and then the slim IDs had rested in the back of your mind in much the same way that they sat, inoffensively, along the back wall of the basement. But something about the demeanor of your former employer had struck upon some instinctual fear; it made the situation real. </p>
<p>And it reminded you that people lie. You’re no profiler, but you’re not half-bad at reading people. In light of the recent evidence, you’re beginning to think you read Paul wrong.</p>
<p>She whistles. “Passports?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, mostly American, but I think some European.”</p>
<p>“I think passports are kinda a big deal. And, well, international ones?”</p>
<p>Your breathing accelerates. “Lyn, what do I do? Now I know what’s happening. If I don’t say something and he gets caught, I think I’m legally an accomplice? An accessory? You’re supposed to report a crime, right? And he fired me for a reason, he’s been so busy lately… and it’s on me if something happens and I could have stopped it sooner.” </p>
<p>You cast your mind back on the look in Paul’s eyes when you’d suggested you might go to the police. You don’t think he has the ability to hurt somebody, not carry out the physical action, but would he be able to give someone an order? Why would there be a need for it? You have no clue how much money is changing hands, but enough money can compel people to do almost anything.</p>
<p>She comes up to you, and you lean into the hug she offers. She strokes your hair. “Take a couple days. Think about it. He’s been going this long, right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you’re right.” In through your nose, hold the breath, out through your mouth. Unclench your jaw. Her nonchalance is reassuring. <em> Talking to people about your problems… helps? Emotionally? </em> It’s Sarah’s voice in your head saying “of course it does” in response.</p>
<p>She has to let you go in order to flip the sandwiches in the butter-soaked pan. Lyn’s secret to a good grilled cheese is adding a mix of spices into the butter on the bread, an assortment that she refuses to name, although you believe most of it is garlic and white pepper. It comes out tasting like comfort between two slices of bread. This is an incredibly soothing food for someone who has stayed up half the night acquiring scraps of information and no real solution. </p>
<p>You put away the first sandwich easily, and then she makes you a second one, adding some sliced tomatoes and more pepper. It helps. It helps more than sitting in your bed looking at your screen and agonizing to yourself.</p>
<p>As you eat, she keeps up a steady stream of chatter, a comforting replay of the underground heavy metal concert they saw at five in the morning on Saturday and how Clarissa has either been talking about Surrealist art a lot less or it’s just stopped annoying her. “I <em> really </em> like her, you know?” </p>
<p>You refuse to feel the pang of jealousy that threatens to sidle into a conversation about someone else’s romance. “I know. That’s amazing, Lyn.”</p>
<p>Lyn tells you she thinks the teenage cashier at the local pizza joint has a huge crush on Spencer and he is totally oblivious.<em> Sounds about right. </em> It’s nice, to see him doing something other than work or spending time with you. Healthy. </p>
<p>“How’s Erwin, by the way? Did he like the catnip I dropped off?” </p>
<p>“Loved it,” you assure her. “He’s becoming, like, a little bit of an asshole. You know how some cats are? In the best way, though. I hung out with him Thursday night, but then Spencer said he was on his way in, so I figured he’d want some space.” </p>
<p>You’ve been spending too much time together, maybe that’s been the issue. Yeah. Something you learned when you had a job and real schedule to worry about is that when Spencer is back from work, he’s free pretty much any time outside of his admittedly eclectic business hours. Lyn is convinced he’s freeing up his life to suit the disorganized cooking lessons, though said lessons have devolved more into, “what do you feel like having for dinner?” and then making it. Spencer is a fast learner, though the easy feel of cooking with him and the communal aspect of it is still there. You don’t think that kind of thing ever leaves. </p>
<p>There is a lot of talking and questions and also a lot of comfortable silence, which is a rare and precious commodity. The two of you spend time at his apartment, or yours, just existing in each other’s space, or take walks and go to museums and parks. Maybe some of that should stop; it allows you to almost convince yourself that the two of you are something which you so clearly aren’t.</p>
<p>You’ll have to tell him he can’t stop by Folio anymore. Or, he can, but you won’t be there.</p>
<p>“Are you going to tell him?” Lyn asks.</p>
<p>You take a sip of water and stare, hard, at the crumbs on your plate. “Tell him what?”</p>
<p>You glance up at the extended sound of breathy laughter that then becomes a little too harsh, until Carolyn Valdes seems to be doubled over, cracking up about the far-away look in your eyes. “I’m <em> so </em> clearly talking about how you got canned, or that Paul is forging documents and scamming rich people who like war memorabilia, or both. Maybe don’t mention the passports ‘til you’ve said that bit. But if you’ve got something else you want to get off your chest, by all means, go for it. Shout his name from the rooftops. Jeez, you’ve got it bad.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I don’t know that I’ll say anything about any of this. I don’t know what to do.” The loss of your job hasn’t given you much time to process the fact that you’ve hit a limit to how deep you can smush down your feelings for Spencer, and they’re quickly growing, romantic feelings mingling with the few platonic ones that remained. That much is very clear.</p>
<p>“Oh, baby, don’t apologize. The man has clearly got some demons.” This statement is underscored by an absolutely ridiculous cheese pull as she bites into her sandwich and proceeds to talk with her mouth open. “If more men were a little cautious about siccing them on others, the world would be a better place. But he seems like a good one, just a little skittish.” </p>
<p>“It feels like everything is happening at once,” you admit. You are not overly fond of decisions like the ones that lay before you.</p>
<p>“I love you, and you’ve clearly got some thinking to do. I’ll be a sounding board if that’s what you need. All I’m doing today is a little bit of dog walking.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have a dog,” you point out.</p>
<p>“I don’t have a dog in the sense that you don’t have a cat, alright? Just promise me you’ll get some sleep. We can take a walk later, maybe. Go and get some air.”</p>
<p>You nod, knowing full well that left to your own devices you will be reading and then rereading old Civil War correspondence and looking into the specifics of making manuscripts look aged. For what it’s worth, she does, later, knock on your door and demand you get some air. Love is in the little things.</p>
<hr/>
<p>When you eventually exit Carolyn’s apartment and walk the few feet to the right that will bring you back to yours, you see the man himself, who Lyn just moments ago referred to as “Doctor Beanstalk”. Spencer’s arm is raised as though he’s about to knock, or not sure if that’s what he’s about to do. He’s got a small suitcase and his usual satchel. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen him wearing his gun, but it once again strikes you as looking ridiculous. <em> They really let him carry that? </em> It couldn’t look more conspicuous or unwieldy. </p>
<p>He looks taller in the carpeted hallway. “Oh, hey,” he says upon seeing you, and you’re actually mad at yourself for the way your stomach flips at how his face breaks into an easy smile, how he always smiles when he sees you and wasn’t expecting to.</p>
<p><em> Stop it! </em> You would love to scream at him. <em> It’s just me! </em>“Got a case. I was just heading over, I was going to let you know I already fed Erwin. How’s Carolyn- hey, hey, are you okay?”</p>
<p>Something about you must look off; you know for sure your eyes are puffy from tears and exhaustion. “Yeah, it’s just… you know,” you say vaguely. “Got some bad news.”</p>
<p>“Uh, do you want to talk? I’ve got a few minutes."</p>
<p>“No, I know you’ve got someplace to be. I’ll tell you all about it when you’re back, if you still want to hear it.” This isn’t exactly a lie, because you haven’t made up your mind about what, if anything, you’re going to tell him about your recent unemployment. A sick thought settles on you. <em> I’ve been lying to him, in a way.  </em></p>
<p>He leans against the wall, all sharp angles and imprecision, but he seems comfortable there. “Well, how are you doing? Are you okay? Is everything okay?”</p>
<p>“I already talked about it with Lyn,” you say, and if you emphasize her name a bit to prove to him that one of you actually has a life, then so be it. “Really, there’s other people out there for you to be saving right now. I’ve got this covered.”</p>
<p>“Look, I care if something is upsetting you. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s more than fine, but I hope things are alright.”</p>
<p>They aren’t. You bite the inside of your cheek. “Thanks,” you say tersely.</p>
<p>“Actually, I came by because I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday morning, with your memory, and... y’know. I shouldn’t have pressed the issue, it clearly made you uncomfortable. I did feel… I was upset. And I had no right to be, you’re right. I’ll work on that. I’ll… yeah. I just wanted to check that we’re still good.” </p>
<p>He so clearly wants to say more, and usually watching him stumble over his words would soften the edge you’re feeling, but it doesn’t. “Spit it out. You’re being kind of weird about that night- what did I do?”</p>
<p>He shakes his head. “Nothing, really.”</p>
<p>You cock your head to the side. For a profiler, he isn’t great at lying to you. You like that in a man. “Why don’t I believe you?”</p>
<p>“When I’m back, I’d like to spend some time together... If that’s okay?”</p>
<p>It feels like he thinks you might just grow bored of him. He has no way of knowing the depth of your curiosity. More than anything about his work, you want to know his favorite fruit. If he sleeps with those mismatched socks on or off. The music he listens to on long car rides. What he feels when the leaves change in the fall, and when he notices them changing. </p>
<p>And you would like to be around to get the answers to these questions, not barraging him with them but just uncovering the answers slowly, over time, like an overly cautious archaeologist picking away at the rubble for something precious, something breakable. A bone that means more to us now that it maybe did to its owner way back when.</p>
<p>So you respond, “Definitely. And I forgive you. Of course I forgive you,” you say, trying not to sound bitter about it. “Water under the bridge. Hell, if you were out kissing strangers, I’d want to hear about it.”</p>
<p> And yeah, it’s a little loaded, a comment meant to keep him at arm’s length, but it’s not as self-sabotaging as it could be. It doesn’t chip the bone.</p>
<p>“I’ll call you when I get back, if that’s alright.” </p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>His phone buzzes, and he checks it, then his watch. Regretfully, he says, “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you when I see you.”</p>
<p> You don’t want to be someone he wasn’t ready for. You aren’t deliberately waiting for him to wake up and want you the way you want him, but you cannot help that the thought remains in the back of your mind. Of course, there are many thoughts sitting back there, collecting dust, like how you should call your mother or do your laundry tomorrow or change the filter in your water purifier. These thoughts are all waiting there. Not all of them will be revisited right away. But they wait, impatiently. </p>
<p>“See you when I see you, Spence.” </p>
<p>And after you get some rest and assist Lyn in walking what turns out to be one of the biggest dogs you have ever seen, you think you have an inkling of what to do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was mostly informational about Paul but also things gotta be Awkward between Spencer and the Reader for a minute while she chooses to sort this out without him. And I just love Lyn. For anyone who missed it, the end of ch. 10, Reader sees the passports in the basement and doesn't disclose it to us, bc she was like "oh at least it isn't murder".</p>
<p>I'll still be posting Monday (which is also light on Spencer but we get Garcia) but I was sidetracked this week because Holidays, and I decided I didn't like the version of ch. 15 that I already had all written :,) so that set me back lol. Hope everyone's holidays were ok, and if they weren't, things will be looking up. They've got to, eventually.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chili</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You go to Penelope for some long-overdue help.<br/>content: mention of alcohol</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>David Mitchell,</b> <b> <em> Cloud Atlas</em> </b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Tuesday</b>
</p><p>This case keeps Spencer away a little bit longer than usual, and May turns into June because it was going to do that whether or not he was here, and you think you may have thought of an approach for the Paul problem. It may blow up in your face a little, but if that’s the case, at least you tried. You have realized that you can’t not try.</p><p>Apart from the legal aspects of losing your job as a cover for some kind of forgery operation, you’ve been experiencing a fun, new way of procrastinating your job search, and this consists of sending out submissions to literary magazines and publishers in droves. You’ve also been creating a portfolio and doing more research on forgery in lieu of, you know, sending out job applications. Your check has come in from your horror story, with a letter attached from <em> Grotesque </em> asking you to send more work their way first, if you’ve got any. You do.</p><p>The solution begins with phase one: you write down the vegan chili recipe. You make the spice mix, put it into a small glass jar, tie the recipe to it with twine. You tell Lyn what you’re planning, because you’re bursting with stress, and she wants in. You allow it, because having her involved makes you feel a little more self-assured. Then you wait.</p><p>As soon as Spencer calls and lets you know that the case has wrapped up and they’ll head back within a few hours, you text Garcia and ask if she’s available for lunch. <em> Right now? </em> she asks. </p><p>You have decided that Spencer is the type of person who would feel very hurt if he found out you were lying to him, albeit by omission, for the entire extent of your friendship, and Penelope Garcia seems like she would be more understanding of the gray areas that exist between the laws as they are on paper and people actually living their lives. The timing of this is precise; you have a couple hours of time padded to ensure that you won’t run into the team, and Penelope will still be at the office but not on speed dial for a series of murders, which you have to admit take precedence over your situation.</p><p><em> Only if that’s fine by you, </em> you reply. Turns out, judging by the video of a dancing cat she sends back, it is.</p><p>The health food place that Derek introduced to you makes some salads that are actually more than just overpriced greens with almond slivers, so you pick up a couple and hop on the metro, with your destination being FBI headquarters. You were more than prepared to talk to her in a different setting, but she says security will let you through, so you go.</p><p>If you had to face down the version of yourself that existed a year ago and tell her that on a hot day in early June, you would be bringing an FBI technical analyst your vegan chili recipe and a chickpea salad in an attempt to question her about information about your former boss who may or may not be running a low-level forgery business, all the while keeping it a secret from your friend and off-limits crush who is a literal genius and also a special agent, then the version of you from a year ago would have looked at you with a dull, tired expression and said, “So, you’re telling me you’re unemployed?” </p><p>All this to say, some concrete things (like not being able to pay rent) make daunting, unbelievable tasks (going to FBI headquarters) appear normal. </p><p>When you arrive at the front desk and your license is checked against a list, you’re given a visitor pass, and an odd anxiety sets in. There are so many guns here. Any person in the elevator could kick your ass. They’re all dressed so formally, and you are wearing baggy pants and a sweater with holes in it that were put there on purpose. Garcia is a welcome sight, her orange hair a suitable contrast to the office casual updos or perfectly straight hair you keep seeing. You sigh with relief and try to stand a little taller.</p><p>“I’m so glad you dropped your phone into that sewer,” you tell Penelope. </p><p>When Penelope Garcia says “oh my gosh”, it’s all one word, as in “<em>Ohmygosh </em> I know. Who would’ve thought that my cupcake addiction would lead me to a night as wild as that one?”</p><p>“I’m getting a headache just thinking about it,” you admit.</p><p>The two of you pass by the open space with desks currently devoid of BAU agents. “This is where the magic happens,” Penelope tells you. “Well, no, not really. This actually where all the paperwork happens, which may not be as magical, but definitely necessary. The real magic is reserved for my office and the field.”</p><p>Immediately, though you walk past it quickly, you can tell which desk is Spencer’s. First it is the many books, lined up along a desk divider, that gives it away, then the selective tidiness of it. His books are, for the most part, propped up carefully but probably not organized by any system you could hope to understand, just as the ones in his apartment are. The paperwork is also arranged carefully, but the rest of the space is littered with post-its and pens. </p><p>Though it seems bare of personal effects, you catch a quick glimpse of a small photograph of Erwin taped to the wall of his little cubicle. The photo seems to be from a month ago when he was significantly smaller. You cannot see much of the picture other than the kitten, but you think it’s your hands that are holding him.</p><p>Penelope asks, “How’s Lyn? We’ve been texting. That girl reminds me of how I used to be.”</p><p>This causes you to blink, astonished. It appears you don’t have a good grasp of who Garcia is, or who Lyn is, or both. “Really?”</p><p>“Well, she’s more alternative than goth, and knows herself better than I knew who I was at that age, but yeah. She’s <em>fun.</em>”</p><p>“And you used to be… goth?”</p><p>You’re trying to pry some photos from Garcia’s goth phase out of her (she only shows you a photo on her phone of what Emily used to look like when she was in high school, and <em> wow </em> you had not been expecting that) when you head into her office. </p><p>“This is exactly what I expected, kind of,” you say, looking at the tangle of wires and the monitors absolutely everywhere, and the odds and ends that make the place seem like her very own kingdom. The fuzzy pens and small plastic toys delight you.</p><p>At the same time, never before have you felt so acutely aware that Big Brother really is watching. A cup of tea doesn’t fully alleviate that feeling, but it doesn’t hurt. “Are you sure I’m allowed to be in here?”</p><p>“Family and friends, that type of thing. I’ll be honest, I may have stretched the truth a bit about who you were, exactly.”</p><p>“Oh? Who did you say I am?”</p><p>She doesn’t quite answer. “I wanted company bad, this case was a real doozy. They all are, but... It’s nice that you’re outside of it.” You realize that with no parents and a boyfriend who also works at the bureau, Garcia might also be lacking in civilian support. But it sounds like she’s getting on with Lyn.</p><p>“I know you probably can’t talk about it much, but I’m glad everyone is okay. Everyone is okay, right?”</p><p>“Physically, yeah. Cases always take their toll, ‘specially with kids involved.” She takes a sip of tea from a mug shaped like an octopus. “I think this was especially hard for Derek. I don’t know how he’s going to be when they land.”</p><p>From what you’ve gathered based on snippets of conversation, Derek is someone who Spencer feels uniquely close to. He doesn’t say as much outright, but sometimes he points out during dinner that <em> this is something Derek would enjoy </em>or tells you about a prank the man may have pulled on him. This indicates, to you, that he is someone who Spencer thinks about warmly, because there is a stark difference in tone when Spencer talks about people who misunderstand him and give him a hard time for talking too much, and friends like Derek Morgan who can elbow him, gently, and tell him to shut up.</p><p>To someone bullied in high school, Derek must be a reminder that people can be strong and kind without sacrificing one for the other. </p><p>Any apology you could think to come up with feels like it would fall short, because you can only say so much to people when the people they love are hurting, so you say the obligatory words and then pull out your small gift. Her eyes light up instantly.</p><p>She chimes, “Is this what I think it is? Oh, Boy Wonder had really better hold onto you, my love. I just <em> had </em> to try some of that chili he brought in, I know he’s a germaphobe but it smelled too good. And I appreciate all food made with nonviolence.”</p><p>“I have some homemade veggie stock, I’d love for you to stop by sometime and I could show you how to make this. More company in the kitchen would be nice.” Said company is usually limited to Spencer, but what the hell, you’ve got a lot more time on your hands now that you’ve lost your job and decided to avoid him until all this is done with. And you’re not as opposed to having people in your space as you once were.</p><p>“Will do, for sure. I want to see the kitty.”</p><p>“Oh, he’s not mine, Erwin lives with Spencer. I’m sure we could make the trip upstairs, though.”</p><p>Penelope nods quickly. “Right. I forget. Now, what brings you by today, angel? Not that I don’t appreciate it. This weekend was funky, huh?” She giggles. “Kevin would like to know what the hell got into me. Anything fun happen after I left?”</p><p>You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to the butterflies in your stomach at the moniker “angel”; this woman is too pure to be seeing the things she sees. “Spencer didn’t tell you?” </p><p>Her eyes have a gleam in them that is way too hopeful. “Something worth telling?”</p><p>“No, <em> no</em>! I honestly got way overserved. That night is a little fuzzy for me. But Lyn had to go with Clarissa to some concert-”</p><p>Garcia nods. “The Barb Wire Dolls underground sunrise show.” </p><p>“Uh, yeah? I didn’t know a ton about it. But she called Spencer and he made sure I didn’t, like, die in my sleep.” She starts to interrupt you. “He crashed <em> on my couch</em>, Pen, get your mind out of the gutter.” </p><p>You’re not sure why you omit the detail about fresh baked cinnamon rolls. Or the fact that you had some kind of conversation that night with Spencer that continues to elude you. Well, you know why. Some things are raw and personal and you don’t know if Penelope would keep them to herself. Even bubbly, bright people have their flaws, and you’ve gathered that hers is loose lips when it comes to anything gossip-worthy.</p><p>This earns you an eyebrow waggle anyways. “Can you ple-e-ease make a move? I mean, the whole office had a pool going at some point. Me and Derek have our own bet going on, I know Reid called the other one off, but honestly. Nothing fun ever happens with him.”</p><p>You wince slightly, but note with relief that the members of the BAU don’t know about the one kiss that lives famously in your memory. Apparently Spencer <em> can </em> lie if he wants to. “Pen, no… I get that you all are practically family, but it’s… weird that you’re all so into each other’s personal lives. Is that normal, for an office?”</p><p>She shrugs, gestures to her monitors. “We have to be close. It’s not exactly a normal workplace.”</p><p>“I guess,” you say, still blushing, and Penelope beams at the look on your face but lets it go. “Speaking of workplaces, this is what I kind of came here to ask about.”</p><p>Going into this, you had not been totally sure how much leeway Penelope Garcia would give you when it comes to turning a blind eye to shady happenings. But you begin with the fact that you woke up two days ago and found you had been fired, then tell her that, in the process of confronting him about the firing, he had mentioned a dislike for federal agents coming through the place. </p><p>You imply that you thought, recently, maybe something untoward was happening in the basement of Folio, and that you had asked about it a little and had been told not to ask any more. You were fired a short time ago, and this caused you to do your own share of research and think you know what’s going on, but you’ve got no real proof. You do not lie outright, but you definitely lie by omission. </p><p>The first request you make of her, out of two, is that you would like to enlist her to look up Paul Winter’s background and confirm your suspicions. Only if she’s comfortable doing so.</p><p>She nods. “Alright, I’m gonna be honest, I planned on finding some dirt on this guy the second you told me he fired you without cause.” To your look of surprise, she says, “What can I say? I’m a curious gal.”</p><p>You realize something. “Pen… have you looked me up? In your system, or whatever you do?”</p><p>“No, I would never…” she says, unconvincingly, and jabs at her kale in an attempt to stall. A chickpea seems to actively avoid her fork. Her cheeks are as pink as the cat ears she’s wearing on her head. “Alright, look. I wanted to. I wanted to look you up so very, <em> very </em> bad after that first day we met and that night we hung out at O’Malley’s. And I <em> really </em> wanted to look you up once our resident genius let slip that the two of you live in the same building. It’s just so damn <em> cute, </em> y’know? Sorry, just saying. I know you two are friends, whatever. But he asked me not to, in the name of friendship. So I didn’t. What would I have found?”</p><p>You laugh, thinking of JJ coming by your store. You’ve omitted this detail and how she was the fed that broke the camel’s back. “You guys are nosy as hell. I don’t know, honestly. Financially? Nothing special, like, at all. Community college, finishing up school at Syracuse, grad school at NYU. No siblings.”</p><p>“So nothing cool? Totally normal Jane Doe life?”</p><p>“I’m allowed.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Okay. There’s an arrest from when I was a teenager,” you say, mostly to annoy her. The resulting gasp is totally worth it.</p><p>“You little stinker! For what?”</p><p>“Nothing crazy, I swear. A senior prank; I helped the rest of my class break into the school and I can’t run very fast. I learned lock-picking for those shits,” you say regretfully.</p><p>Penelope says your name like it’s a scandal. “Maybe we shouldn’t have let you in, after all.”</p><p>“Seriously, though, I had no clue that Paul was doing anything like this until two days ago. I’m not sure if it’s big, but I guess I don’t want him to get away with it.”</p><p>“Sure, sure. Not now that he’s let you go,” she says pointedly, but without any harshness. She used the same tone of voice when Lyn nabbed your phone from you on Friday and held onto it so you wouldn’t “get distracted”; a little playful, but watchful. She sees all, only judges sometimes.</p><p>You start to blurt out some apologies and excuses, and she raises her hand. “Sorry, I touched a nerve. Pettiness is a very strong motivating force, don’t I know it. And I understand how it can be tricky, the first of the month stops for no man. Or lady. Or however someone may identify. But I’m glad you stayed at that place, or none of us would have met you. The devil you know is better than having to wait tables with a Master’s degree.”</p><p>“You really are a lot like Lyn in some ways.” </p><p>She seems gratified to hear this.</p><p>“Also, before you go,” she says, and are you hearing sheepishness in Penelope’s usually blithesome voice? “I may have put you down as his live-in girlfriend so they would let you in the building. The security protocols aren’t as lax as I let on.” </p><p>The two of you make plans for dinner tonight. Your face has never been redder as you step out of the front doors, and you decide to pretend it’s from the shame of not turning in your boss for counterfeiting sooner, and not the other thing, the thought of being referred to as Spencer’s girlfriend, even if it’s just to security working the front desk.</p><p>You exit headquarters and head to the station so you can ride the metro downtown to stake out Folio, although calling it a stake out is being generous. You only need to check and see that Paul is there. Going to see Penelope has only been the first part of your plan, which feels way too easy. <em> Maybe, </em> you think<em>, I am not very used to having friends in high places. Or generosity. </em></p><p>Paul will likely be picked up by the police before Penelope does any real digging. But now, you’ve contacted an authority, if you can call Garcia that. Maybe some good has come from having friends in the FBI, after all. </p><p>He isn’t about to be arrested for forgery. Let the police find that out later.</p><p>When you arrive, you check to see that his car is parked in its usual spot, and walk past the store a couple times to see that he’s at the register. You call Lyn.</p><p>“Is Operation Merlot an operation go?” she asks immediately. You think this may have been the first time she has ever picked up the phone on the first ring, which is alarming because she’s at work right now.</p><p>“Have you been working on that all afternoon? It’s kind of... distasteful.”</p><p>“Yeah, that and my British accent. Pretty good, innit?”</p><p>“You are <em> not </em> about to call in a tip with a British accent. Cut that out right now, you’ll get them confused that it’s either a prank call or a crime of, like, international concern.” Which, it might be. Yikes.</p><p>“Okay, Queen Buzzkill. That’s your new codename.”</p><p>“No codenames.”</p><p>“That’s exactly why it’s your codename. So, it’s a go?”</p><p>You sigh. “Yes, it’s a go. Thank you.” And then Lyn hangs up, presumably to rush to a payphone (or, more likely, nab a cell from a student) and call the local police to report public drunkenness. <em> I just went in for a book, sir, and I could smell it on him. Normally I just mind my own business but he’s got a car parked around back in the employee space and he’s the only one working. Don’t want to see him on the roads. </em>Never mind that Paul leaves his car in that space most of the time and takes the metro. The first sight of cops and he’ll do something to invite suspicion.</p><p>You want Paul to get the help he needs. You would also like him to stop committing crimes, but this comes second. It upsets you that your own selfishness prevented both of these things, and that your pettiness is what is bringing about a warped sort of justice. Try as you might, you can’t bring yourself to feel proud about what’s happening. <em> What does that mean? </em> you wonder, as you walk away from Folio, thinking it might be the last time you do so. <em> Do I even think this is the right thing to do? </em></p><p>Turns out, a lot of this guilt stems from the fact that the second thing you asked Garcia to do was keep all this a secret from Spencer as long as possible. “As long as possible” turns out to be only one day.</p><hr/><p>At your quick trip to the grocery store, Penelope calls and mentions pleadingly how <em> Emily Prentiss rarely gets a home-cooked meal, who needs their protein more than our field agents</em>, and you take the not-so-subtle hint and invite her, too. When you get home, as you’re washing vegetables in preparation for your guests, Spencer calls. </p><p>He asks if you’d like to make dinner together. He asks this in a muted tone, cautious, and you realize that normally, you’d be there already. You apologize, citing the fact that you’re expecting company, and you’re eating here. He’s only one floor above, but it feels as though he may as well still be in LA. He asks the obvious question, conversationally but a little surprised. “Who? You don’t normally have people over, you go out.” </p><p>“Um, Penelope and Emily.” You opt to call it a girl’s night. Though, it sounds like he usually gets an invite to those. “But, if you want to stop by...” you begin to offer begrudgingly. You feel like shit as you say this, knowing full well that the power of three seemingly little words is crushing.<em> If you want</em>, at least in this context, is a phrase used by people who oftentimes turn out to be cowards or bad friends or both.</p><p>“I wouldn’t want to impose.”</p><p>In an attempt to cushion the blow and the two of you exchange halting formalities and the usual questions. <em> How was the case? I’m sorry to hear about that. Glad you got him. Let me know if there's something Derek likes, I can make it for him. Erwin being good? I’ll see you soon, definitely. Bye. </em>You understand the gut-punching feeling of being excluded. In this case, it’s because you know he would be able to tell you are hiding something. In fact, your whole phone call probably reads as awkwardness over the other morning, and the night you can’t remember all the pieces of. </p><p>That memory doesn’t seem to be completely gone, maybe if you focused enough it could be uncovered, but you are choosing not to look at it too closely. Also, you think your drunk night cracked something open in you that makes you unable to operate around him normally anymore, and recovering it all might lead you down a path you can’t turn back from.</p><hr/><p>You’ve pretty much always got some vegetable stock in the fridge; if nothing else, heating it up in a mug lends any day a feeling of warmth, a sort of solidity. You keep a lot of your vegetable scraps in the freezer and this stock is fairly recent, a product of unemployment. Your cooking, when you’re well-rested enough to put some real effort into it, has been pretty damn good lately.</p><p>There are always onions and cloves of garlic in the fridge, and various beans in the pantry. Aromatics and easy protein. Chili is about texture, to an extent, but if not eating meat has taught you anything, it’s seasoning. Cumin is one of your personal favorites; it smells like your childhood home if your mom was the one at the stove. </p><p>You get most of the prep work done before their arrival, and the movement of the knife and the gentle noise it makes against the cutting board feels like consistency. It’s grounding, and you’re nearly done when Penelope arrives with Emily. </p><p>“There she is!”</p><p>They are a pleasant duo to have at your front door, one bubbly and familiar, the other someone who knows you but only barely, here based on the good judgements of other people. Is this who you are, someone on your way to being accepted into a group of people drawn together by blood spent and lost? </p><p>“Glad you survived the night,” Emily says, and offers a bottle of wine.</p><p>“Um, me too. It was a close one, probably.” You’re going to have to beg off drinking, probably, since you’re still unable to even smell alcohol after the night you’d both had. It is a little embarrassing, and you consider apologizing to Emily, who you don’t know well; but she’s a profiler, too, and you assume they can read your emotions as plain as day.</p><p>You direct the FBI agents in your home and show Penelope the veggie scraps in your freezer, stored for some version of you in the future who’s making soup, who recognizes that you can still use things that appear to hold no more worth.</p><p>Emily looks over the kitchen, says, “I’m going to make Reid start bringing enough to share if he heats up anything that smells half as good as those enchiladas from last week. If he didn’t have such bony elbows I would have fought him for one.”</p><p>“If you do, let me know, I think I’d like to see that.”</p><p>Another knock at the door before the knob turns and Lyn enters; she’s been invited simply by the smell of cooking food. You’ve planned for this, and will have plenty left over to send home with the agents, extra for Penelope to offer Derek.</p><p>Soon enough everything is simmering in the pot and Emily is looking around your place. You shift your weight, watching as she looks around, your pile of books and somewhat impressive collection of mugs. But she doesn’t remark on any of it apart from how neat it is, and asks you a few questions about cat ownership. "If I get one, do you think you could sit sometimes, when we're out on cases?"</p><p>“I might as well, one more couldn’t hurt.”</p><p>She offers to pay you and you try to refuse, until Lyn loudly bemoans that she’ll take the gig if you don’t, and it might just kill her. A touch overdramatic, but you’re grateful.</p><p>The wine flows between them, and you’re glad you’ve got something to do with your hands to keep you busy; it keeps your mind from focusing too much on trying hard in the conversation, and allows Lyn to take over much of the required banter.</p><p>Work doesn’t really come up, something you’re grateful for, but when the food is done cooking, you portion it into mismatched ceramic bowls and gather to look for a movie.</p><p>“Action, anyone? Okay, what about that new movie, what’s it called- ‘Dangerous Enemies’?”</p><p>Lyn says, “With Lila Archer? She’s something, isn’t she?” </p><p>You and Emily nod, and Penelope’s hand flies up to her mouth. </p><p>“What, Garcia?” Prentiss asks dryly. She’s squished against Penelope on the couch while Lyn sits in your loveseat and you rest on the arm of the chair.</p><p>“Nothing. Well, not nothing. The team got to meet her, um, on a case, she’s a delight, apparently.” She busies herself with a sip of the white wine, despite her earlier insistence that she can’t drink wine without dangerous repercussions.</p><p>“And?” you say.</p><p>“Yeah, and?” Emily teases. “Don’t hold out on me. I can’t believe I haven’t heard more about this. She’s one of my favorite actresses.”</p><p>Penelope’s eyes dart to each of you, and rest on your face a moment too long.</p><p>“Oh my <em> god,</em>” you murmur, shocked. A grin creeps across your face against your will.</p><p>Emily says, “No way. Did she and Morgan-?”</p><p>The shake of Penelope’s head is too quick and short. “Oh, no no. Nope. <em> Reid.</em> She made out with Reid. I think I’ve still got some of the pictures to prove it.”</p><p>You nearly spit out your chili. “<em>Pictures? </em>”</p><p>“Derek rescued some of the film. I mean, otherwise, who would believe it?”</p><p>Lyn shrieks, “Penny, I’ve got to see this! Please, I’m in love with her and I don’t know if I believe <em>he’s</em> got that kind of game.” Her eyes cut to you.</p><p>Before the words “I shouldn’t” even really leave Garcia’s mouth, she’s got her phone out. Emily Prentiss whistles, and then Lyn sees them before you do. “Huh.”</p><p>For some reason, although finding out Spencer tried to go out with JJ sparked a strange, hopeless jealousy in you, this is more amusing than anything else. It doesn’t seem real, until you see them, and even then you feel a strange sort of pride in him. Although, you don’t think you were ever really meant to see high quality photography of Spencer soaking wet, kissing so cautiously. It renders you a little useless to look at him in that pool.</p><p>“Good for him,” you find yourself saying after a couple seconds, and you really do mean it. You pass the phone back.</p><p>“<em>Excellent </em> for him,” Prentiss says, bemused. “Why didn’t I ever hear about this?”</p><p>“He very seriously asked us to stop bringing it up. Sometimes he can be personal, y’know. Tight-lipped.” Garcia says.</p><p>“Speaking of Doctor Converse’s personal life,” Lyn says. “Who’s got the odds on him being bi? Because I’ve hung out with that man, and there’s just no shot he’s a hundred percent straight.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t bet against you,” Prentiss says.</p><p><em> This is exactly what I didn’t know I wanted, </em>you think. New friends and too much conversation. To be hosting and not having a panic attack about it. For things to be easy, in many ways. There is leftover food, but not so much that you worry they didn’t like it, and everyone bubbled over with good things to say. </p><p>
  <span>The four of you watch the Lila Archer movie and agree with Lyn on this point, and gradually uncover that none of you are a hundred percent straight, some not even the slightest bit straight at all, and then move on to other topics of conversation, like whose idea it was, exactly, to make such hot chili in June. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this one took me ages to write and i personally think i edited all the life out of it, but it gets things moving? idk,, if one good thing came of it it's me asserting that most of the BAU is gay in this fic and clears up more Paul stuff. 16 and 17 coming this week and we get back to the slow burn!</p><p>as an apology for this chapter existing, here's a little tidbit from chapter 16:</p><p>As you open your mouth to ask him why he looks so damn sad, you close it. The song is bringing up a foggy memory of warm arms around your shoulders and someone holding you up. Your feet on kitchen tile.<br/>You meet Spencer’s eyes and he reads the question on your face.<br/>“Did we dance to this, the other night in my kitchen?”<br/>“Music can help with memory retrieval,” he says vaguely.<br/>“I’m taking that as a yes.”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chocolate Croissants</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Reader can't seem to ignore Spencer, despite her best efforts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I got a little self-indulgent here and added a link you can use to listen to the song I've mentioned!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Oscar Wilde, </b> <b> <em>The Importance of Being Earnest</em> </b></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Wednesday, 6pm</b>
</p>
<p>It is not easy to ignore Spencer Reid. For one thing, the two of you live in the same building, and whenever he’s in town he assumes that the two of you will spend time together, because that’s been the routine for going on four months now. It’s also hard to ignore Spencer because you really like his cat, and you think the cat likes you, as much as you can tell. Unless otherwise specified, the two of you cook dinner together, something that seems to ground both of you.</p>
<p>And also, being around Spencer Reid is generally easy and comfortable, much like slipping on your favorite sweater. You find yourself missing his tangents and the way he can speak for an hour, uninterrupted, if you allow it. You miss his informed questions when it’s your time to go on passionately about any given subject, which is usually the last book you read. The thing about Spencer is that he has pretty much always read the last book you read, even if he hadn't when you began it. It's one of the few things that irritates you about him, although, in the end, it comes in handy.</p>
<p>Basically, it’s hard to ignore him because you like him too damn much. That's also exactly why you're doing it.</p>
<p>Ignoring Spencer is made the tiniest bit easier by the fact that the past couple days, your feelings for him have become a little hard to ignore, and also you’re going to have to tell him you lost your job and have been lying to him, in a roundabout way, for the entirety of your friendship. </p>
<p>“Thanks, Aidan,” you say to the orange-haired barista with the kind smile, who has once again given you another shot of espresso without the additional charge, and throws you a beleaguered grin. </p>
<p>“No problem. I get how it can be,” they say, now gesturing to your table, which is covered in notebooks and printouts of your resume. </p>
<p>They’re a couple years younger than you, still in college at Georgetown, and they’ve got this job to help offset some of the expenses. They spoke with you one afternoon when you were here and lost track of time.</p>
<p>You try to never be the person to stay in a place of business right before it closes. It embarrassed you when, weeks ago, Aidan had to come over and tap you on the shoulder to tell you the store was closing up. You'd stammered an apology and tried to collect your things, but they said you could stay until all the cleaning was done. You were grateful, because if you’d tried to remember what you were writing on the walk home, you would have lost it entirely. You spoke with them on part of the walk back and found you liked them a lot, not just as a cool barista, but as a human you would enjoy knowing, though in life there is often a lot of overlap between the two. </p>
<p>“Gotta love the gig economy,” you say.</p>
<p>“Looking forward to it in a couple of years.”</p>
<p>“Don’t make me feel old,” you tell them.</p>
<p>When they smile, they seem a couple inches taller than the cool five feet of space they occupy. “Never.”</p>
<p>Currently, you’re doing something more unpleasant than researching the skeevy work of your former employer, or applying to jobs, or changing Erwin’s litter box. You are doing math. You are trying to reduce the general budget for being alive, and it seems impossible without, well, not living, which isn’t really an option. Fortunately, with your grocery budget slashed by Spencer’s well-stocked fridge for the past couple months, you have enough to pay rent this month and the next, and a chunk left over once you cancel your subscription to that database of old documents and letters. After that? Well. You had better get an interview soon.</p>
<p>The buzzing of your cell phone announces to you that Spencer has called for the second time this afternoon. You turn it off, toss it in your bag. You close all your tabs having to do with budgeting and thinking about the future. Instead, you allow yourself to sink into a fantasy world that is a new story you began while procrastinating on job applications. You like it, a lot, and you think it will easily be accepted by <em> Grotesque</em>, the publication that took your horror story, but you might turn it into something more. They’ve already accepted another one you sent in, about sleepwalking. </p>
<p>The pay is decent, and it’s by no means something you can live off of without a part-time job, but it feels fucking phenomenal to be given money for putting words on paper. Any new job you get would only have to be part time. </p>
<p>You’ve even started compiling a few of your very favorite stories and squirreling them away, hoping against hope for the chance to publish them as a collection all your own.</p>
<p>Your mocha goes cold. You don’t care. You type away, satisfied with the progress you’re making. Someone sits down in the seat across from you. </p>
<p>“I don’t want company-” you begin, and stop speaking in the process of looking up.</p>
<p>Apparently it is also difficult to avoid Spencer Reid because you frequent the same coffee shop.</p>
<p>“Hi,” you say, sheepish.</p>
<p>You wouldn’t say he looks angry, per se. “What’s going on?” he asks straightaway, voice shot through with both concern and irritation. “Are you ignoring me?”</p>
<p>“Not at the moment,” you say, gesturing to where he’s sitting. You begin to move out of the way some of the papers with snippets of dialogue and fragments of sentences written on them. You’ve found yourself writing by hand pretty frequently lately.</p>
<p>“Did I do something? You’ve been acting so strange since Sunday. What’s going on?” he repeats.</p>
<p>You take a deep breath, and close your eyes. He hasn’t done anything, necessarily. “I got fired, Spence.” </p>
<p>You open your eyes after a beat, but still catch the pitying look on his face. You don't like it. “When? What happened?”</p>
<p>“I found out after you left my place the other morning. It was over a phone call.”</p>
<p>“Why? I know that D.C. is an employment at will state, but I thought-”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to get into it just yet,” you find yourself saying, and that’s that.</p>
<p>He respects that, though he seems a little hurt you didn’t tell him sooner. “I’m sorry. You okay?”</p>
<p>“It’s… hard. But I’m alright. Sorry about yesterday. I wanted you there, I should have said something, I just… needed a little space.” How do you say that you want him there, always, but that it’s too much? That you are trying to convince yourself that maybe, with enough distance, you will stop feeling the way you do?</p>
<p>“Oh. Of course. Garcia brought some chili in for Derek. He liked it.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad. Is he doing alright?”</p>
<p>The two of you try to fall back into your usual rhythm of conversation or comfortable silence, and discuss the latest case a little bit, and how Erwin has grown so much lately, but something is off, and you can both feel it. </p>
<p>Usually, you are in tune, but there’s something discordant about this conversation; it feels like contrived small talk between two people who have not seen one another in a long time. As you type, he is turning the pages of his book far slower than usual, for him, and a couple times it seems like he is about to clear his throat and read to you but stops and appears to think better of it. </p>
<p>When he asks if you’d like a refill, you shake your head, already too jittery from caffeine. When he returns he’s got two chocolate croissants. Aidan seems to be peering at the two of you from where they stand at the cash register, no doubt intrigued at Spencer’s familiarity. He presents you with the second croissant, and both the gesture and a bite of the warm pastry improve your mood somewhat. You thank him, and he mumbles something about antioxidants in chocolate.</p>
<p>There is still a strange jaggedness to the two of you; Spencer is fidgeting uncomfortably, and you get the sense he feels like he’s interrupted you. Technically, he has, but his interruptions have never felt like them before.</p>
<p>This somewhat dissonant companionship goes on for the better part of an hour, and right as you are about to ask if he’d like to head back home, you pause. He is listening to the music playing in the cafe very intently, no longer even pretending to read his book, and an expression of something you can only say is bordering on misery has contorted his features. It changes the whole shape of a person, sadness.</p>
<p>You have been humming along to it absentmindedly; the song is “I Wish You Love”. It’s not the version on the Marvin Gaye CD currently in your speaker system at home, it's sung by a woman, but easy to recognize nonetheless. You last listened to it a week ago, while cooking dinner on your own. </p>
<p>At that time, you had realized that cooking alone in your apartment was less common than cooking with Spencer at his, or ordering food with Lyn, or going out with other friends. It had been a long time since you had the chance to sing, alone, in your kitchen. </p>
<p>The most common space for you to prepare a meal now is at Spencer’s. Usually you have Sarah on speaker if he isn’t there, and you have to fend off a cat. The fact that you had not cooked dinner alone in your own kitchen in quite a long time had felt like proof that you have other people in your life, who love you enough to share a meal. As you had sung with discordant abandon to the words “Never lovers, ever friends,“ it had felt a little unusual to be so alone. For one of the first times in recent history, it had not felt like some fault of your own. You enjoyed the solitude for what it was.</p>
<p>As you open your mouth to ask him why he looks so damn sad, you close it. The song is bringing up a foggy memory of warm arms around your shoulders and someone holding you up. Your feet on kitchen tile.</p>
<p>You meet Spencer’s eyes and he reads the question on your face.</p>
<p>“Did we dance to this, the other night in my kitchen?” </p>
<p>“Music can help with memory retrieval,” he says vaguely.</p>
<p>“I’m taking that as a yes.”</p>
<p>“We should get out of here,” he says. </p>
<p>And you don’t ask him any more questions, just wave a hasty goodbye to Aidan as they watch the two of you swiftly exit the shop and head into the warm evening. </p>
<p>“Spencer, what-”</p>
<p>He cuts you off not with words, but by closing his hand over yours. You don’t remove it, though that's your first instinct. You suppress the sadness that comes from holding onto him but not in a way that feels like it matters, not the way you want it to. </p>
<p>The walk to your apartment is not far, and it is a nice afternoon; the air smells like the start of summer and the promise of a good sunset. You think about how when you met him, it was rainy and cold. It feels like very little time has passed, but also like you are a totally different person than the version of you who was sitting behind the desk at Folio when he came in, hair wet from the rain, and insulted the shop you cared so much about. Still do, if you’re being honest.</p>
<p><em>"Do you actually sell any folios? Manuscripts?" </em>he had asked. And it turns out you could have said <em>“Yeah, we do, but they aren’t legitimate. Do you need anything forged?”</em> Though your hand is enveloped in his, you feel far away from him right now. Can he feel your pulse, read somehow that you are hiding something? This, too, could probably be blamed on the caffeine if need be; you know it is from the closeness of him. </p>
<p>The afternoon has a hazy, unreal quality to it as you try and muster up any fragments of memory from after Lyn and Clarissa had left your apartment Saturday night, or what was technically Sunday morning. You get a few bars of “I Wish You Love”, and the feel of your kitchen tiles under bare feet, but that’s it. </p>
<p>“The English version of that song was adapted from the French <em>‘Que reste-t-il de nos amours?’</em> which I believe more directly translates to ‘what remains of our loves?’. It’s a musical standard now, but was first introduced to American audiences by Keely Smith back in 1957.” You nod, and he keeps talking about Marvin Gaye and music’s effects on our memories, how it can evoke strong emotions. </p>
<p>Instead of walking all the way home, he stops at a small park a few blocks away. It’s little more than a few patches of grass and a single beech tree with a bench, but it’s near a small lake, so the city calls it a park. He doesn’t drop your hand, and you don’t pull away.</p>
<p>“What happened that night?”</p>
<p>He says, without looking at you, “After you went out to that club, Lyn called me. She asked for my shirt, gave it to you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I remember that part.”</p>
<p>“I went back to my apartment, got a fresh one, and when I came back she had to head out. You didn’t want to go to bed just yet. You seemed… really happy to see me.”</p>
<p>Sounds about right. “I’m cool like that.”</p>
<p>“No, seriously, <em> really </em> happy.” He says it like he has to impress upon you your own joy, as if you don’t know exactly what you feel when you see him. “And you smiled and your whole face changed, and on the way out Clarissa told me, ‘she hadn’t been that happy kissing that jerk at the club’, and they headed out.” </p>
<p>You wince. “I barely remember that,” you confess. </p>
<p>“I know. Would you like to?”</p>
<p>And when he extends his other hand to you, cautiously, it requires no thought to accept it. Or rather, you suppress the urge to say no for your own sake, the piece of you that doesn't want him to know you for fear that he won’t like what he finds. You lean into the way that it feels; when he has hold of both of your hands for a second, it's like he is gripping your soul by the scruff of its neck.</p>
<p>One hand drops to your back. It is as though any moment he’s going to pull you into an intimate waltz. You try to imagine music that isn’t really playing. It isn’t difficult; you know <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qKUCUoTn7JE"> the song </a> well.</p>
<p>“This okay?” he asks in a subdued voice, a kind of hum to his words, and you nod. "Okay" doesn't begin to cover it.</p>
<p>“We danced,” he says. “Dancing might be a generous choice of words, actually. We swayed a little, and you knew all the words. You said you did, anyways. You didn’t sing.”</p>
<p>“I’d be surprised if I did.” You like singing, but know you are unskilled at it. You choose not to sing when others are around because you think of yourself as a considerate person. “Was I wearing your shirt?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I tried to get you to go to sleep, but you weren’t having it. Insisted on playing your CD and dancing. I kept my hands to myself, but you wouldn’t put any real pants on.”</p>
<p>“That tracks. Ever the gentleman.”</p>
<p>Your instinct now is to sink into him, rest your head on his chest. You feel rather than hear him chuckle. “You did that, too.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure I did. You’re a good human pillow,” you say. It’s as though the physical contact has evaporated your need to be aloof with him, or pretend to be distant. It isn’t working, anyways. It never has been.</p>
<p>You wrap your arms around his waist almost without realizing it, and he allows it, circling his own arms around your shoulders, one hand in your hair until it is little more than a very long, welcome hug which presses your head against his chest. His chin rests on the top of your head.</p>
<p>“Do you remember?”</p>
<p>It is coming back, in bits and pieces. “A little. The song ended, and we stayed like this. And I said the thing about the tupperware.”</p>
<p>“What does it mean?” </p>
<p>You don’t answer straight away. “It’s… not the most healthy thing, I guess. I wanted to not think of you, for a night. So I took you, and all my thoughts about you, and put them away. Made you off limits.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>You shouldn’t have sighed, because it means you’re breathing him in, all the individual notes that make up Spencer Reid. All the things that make him not yours. “Because you are off limits. And that’s hard.” Is it easy for him?</p>
<p>“How do you do it?”</p>
<p>“Do what?”</p>
<p>“Think of other people?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know how much room you’ve got up there, Spence, but the rest of us can still focus on more than one thing at a time without an eidetic memory.”</p>
<p>“Not what I meant.” The resulting squeeze around your shoulders as he hugs you a little for teasing him makes it worth it. “How could you go and find someone and kiss him?”</p>
<p>Sometimes he knocks the breath out of you, saying things like that. “We already decided you don’t get to be jealous,” you whisper. </p>
<p>“I guess we did. But, despite what some of my team thinks, I'm only human.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want anyone but you,” you venture.</p>
<p>“Don’t say that. Please,” he murmurs. Is it just you, or does his hold on you tighten?</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t I? I wouldn’t-” You had been about to say that you would not lie to him, but that in itself would have been a fiction. A pang of anxiety threatens to creep into the warm closeness you are feeling. “I was thinking about you,” you say instead. “I wouldn’t even recognize him if he walked down the street. Why can’t we talk about what that means?”</p>
<p>He says, “I put my faith in facts and figures. Something like this wasn’t meant for someone like me.” And the awful thing is, he means it.</p>
<p>You pretend to scoff at the ridiculousness of a statement like <em> that, </em> but it hurts you. You are not some mystical force or destiny, just a person, and you’d like to be treated as such. And, like he's already stated, he's human, too. Not some robot. “Alright, Doctor. You sound like an Austen character. What, you don’t have the <em>constitution</em> for it?”</p>
<p>“You don’t need to call me-”</p>
<p>“-Doctor, I know. Why is that? You don’t mind when Lyn does it. Or anybody else.”</p>
<p>“It’s just a formality we don’t need, I think. I’d prefer you calling me an idiot.”</p>
<p>“Now that, I can do.”</p>
<p>Spencer seems to be lost in thought, as he often is. Sometimes you joke that you can hear the machinery in his brain working, and it’s very true right now.</p>
<p>“Can I say something?” you ask. </p>
<p>“Can’t we just stay like this? ”</p>
<p>“Hear me out. It’s my turn to think out loud.”</p>
<p>His lips brush against your hair when he says, “Okay.”</p>
<p>“It might be a while.”</p>
<p>“I’ve done my fair share of talking in the time we’ve known each other.”</p>
<p>So you tell him about your time living in New York. After you had just finished school, you were lugging around your Master’s in Literature and your English degree. Unsent PhD applications felt like they were anvils weighing you down, and your lease was up and you had no clue what to do next. In the month before you had to decide to stay or go, you finally had time and a lot of it. </p>
<p>You started to see all the elements of your day, at last. You know how you go through long stretches of time and feel like you’re asleep, just surviving? Survival was something to be proud of, then. It still is.</p>
<p>But one day, you woke up. Alive, you were no longer shuffling, head down, from one destination to another, but walking somewhere. And it was as though you could now see the strings that connected people and they were bright, visible lines of color that made you care a little bit more about life.</p>
<p>You started to enjoy the journey and whatever you happened across, instead of seeing distance or other people as a hindrance. Errands no longer felt like they needed hours of mental preparation, and you were no longer slogging through anything. </p>
<p>You did not realize this all at once. One day, you saw a scrap of litter directly in your path, a ripped Snickers bar, and you stopped to pick it up and throw it away and noticed how only the middle letters were readable and it read NICK. At the time, this was a reminder of an old friend from high school you had not spoken to in years.</p>
<p>And then you realized, long after the subsequent phone call turned into plans which turned into laughter, that just a week before you would not have seen the wrapper at all. So much changes when you wake up.</p>
<p>You lived in that city for two years and you never really saw any of it until that last month. You wanted a change, and Nick had told you about his roommate’s uncle, who was looking to hire someone at his bookstore as soon as possible, his son was leaving the family business and he needed someone willing to work full time with a strange, malleable schedule. </p>
<p>Paul interviewed you over the phone after you submitted your application and the next month, you were living next to a strange man named Desmond, who ultimately convinced you to become a vegetarian, and he was replaced by Carolyn Valdes a year later.</p>
<p>This is the true currency of our world, you say into Spencer’s chest as the two of you continue to sway to the sound of your story. Our connections. The way we see the world leads us to the people we end up loving. New threads appeared, unbeknownst to you, connecting you to Lyn and eventually Penelope. The thread connecting you to Sarah grew taut, but will not break. Even tentative new ones, like the one now connecting you, however briefly, to Aidan from the coffee shop, crop up every day.</p>
<p>You tell all this to Spencer Reid. “I wouldn’t know you today if I hadn’t picked up a piece of litter in Queens that particularly bothered me.”</p>
<p>“Write that down,” he says. “It’s the scariest story I’ve ever heard.”</p>
<p>The two of you look at one another. You feel like a shaken up soda can, fit to burst and tell him something you can’t take back. You wonder if he will kiss you. He doesn’t. You pretend you will be fine as long as you can stand in place with him in this miserable excuse for a park and wait for the sunset. </p>
<p>You do just that, and then you walk home, and the thread between you is in the process of tying itself into a knot that would be very difficult to sever even if you wanted to.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> Goodbye, let our hearts call it a day </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> But before you walk away </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> I sincerely want to say </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> I wish you bluebirds in the spring </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> To give your heart a song to sing </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> And then a kiss, but more than this </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> I wish you love </em>
  </p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This little arc was inspired by the song "I Think We Danced (But I Can't Be Sure)" by Rand. I've got a couple playlists curated around this fic, lmk if you want me to share some of the songs! I probably won't link my personal Spotify but I would drop a list of songs.</p>
<p>All of your comments are incredibly motivating and make me smile every damn time I see them, thank you all. I realized right after I last posted that I only started this a couple months ago, and it's been a little over a month on ao3?? Definitely a highlight of my year. Have a happy New Year's, and I hope every year brings us at least a little more joy than the last.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Pancakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You and Spencer try and act like things are back to normal. You do not succeed.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“You go to someone and you think, 'I'll tell him this.' But why? The impulse is that the telling is going to relieve you. And that's why you feel awful later--you've relieved yourself, and if it truly is tragic and awful, it's not better, it's worse---the exhibitionism inherent to a confession has only made the misery worse.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Philip Roth, </b> <em> <b>American Pastoral</b></em></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Wednesday, about 9pm</b>
</p>
<p>The feeling of being on the same page around Spencer again has only just begun to feel natural and real when he gets the phone call. </p>
<p>At first, on the walk back from the apartment, you had felt heavy with the tension between the two of you, the quasi-acknowledgement of the way you both feel. But something about the intimacy of the dance has reassured you that things will be alright, after all; it is almost not difficult to convince yourself that you don’t need to hear, out loud, that Spencer cares about you in the same way you care about him. </p>
<p>Dinner tonight is simple. You are making pancakes for dinner at Spencer’s apartment, and you are trying to keep Erwin off of the counters, but he insists on interjecting himself into the process. This must be a result of Spencer letting him on the counters when you are not here, probably, because you are not stingy with the spray bottle when you cook alone. </p>
<p>“Did you know that in ancient Greece and Rome, pancakes were made from wheat flour, olive oil, honey, and curdled milk?”</p>
<p>“I’ll stick to my boxed mix and oat milk, thanks very much. Honey sounds good, though.” You cast a glance at the syrup on the counter, and the adolescent black cat rearing to pounce. “Do you put things close to the edge just to tease him?”</p>
<p>“It’s something cats do with prey, their paws are really sensitive and it’s the best way to interact with an unknown object. Just ignore him, or it’ll encourage him otherwise.”</p>
<p>“If he knocks it over, he wins.”</p>
<p>You’re pretending to be annoyed, but when Spencer scoops up Erwin you check to make sure he knows you’re kidding. The lightness to his whole face when he makes eye contact with you affirms that he knows you don’t actually hate this cat. </p>
<p>The sun has set and the light in the kitchen comes from the bulb above the stovetop and the illumination coming from the living room. Choosing not to turn on a lamp or the overhead light creates a dim atmosphere. The resulting feeling of closeness is not unwelcome. You slide two more pancakes onto the plate, pour some more of the mix onto the pan in even circles, toss in a handful of chocolate chips for Spencer’s sweet tooth. His pantry has become much more well stocked than when you first set foot in here a few months ago.</p>
<p>The phone call in itself is not unusual. He has gotten calls before during dinner, and has sometimes been on the jet and in the air before food has left the oven. So when he hangs up, with a simple, “Yeah, I’ll tell her,” it takes you a minute to place the look on his face.</p>
<p>This is because you have never seen him angry. </p>
<p>“That was Garcia. Hotch made her call me.” The shadows of the kitchen make his face appear more angular as he speaks, the words coming out hollow.</p>
<p>“Oh,” you say in a too-quiet voice, your hand frozen on the handle of the pan. </p>
<p>“Anything you’d like to let me know about?”</p>
<p>“Um, that Paul has been running a business forging false documents under Folio?”</p>
<p>He is too still right now, and it makes you nervous. There is a redness creeping up his neck, and this is when you begin to realize he is furious. “And he’s been a key member of a chain which puts wanted criminals in contact with false identification.”</p>
<p>“Oh. I didn’t completely know that part.” </p>
<p>He says your first name with a viciousness you can’t assign to him, and for a solid three seconds you’re convinced that you hear the rushing of the ocean in your head. It’s like when you’re a kid and you listen for the waves in a seashell, and put all of your energy into convincing yourself that that’s what it is, the tides, and not your own blood pumping. But aren’t each of them beautiful? Are they really so different? </p>
<p>“Were you a part of this?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Absolutely not.” </p>
<p>Spencer says, “He’s claiming otherwise.” The words come out softly, but by no means kindly. He is quiet in his fury.</p>
<p>“Do you not believe me?” you ask, resenting the way hurt creeps in. You had not even considered this in your list of scenarios of how this might play out.</p>
<p>“Is that why he fired you, because you knew too much? Didn’t want to work for him anymore?” </p>
<p>“I wasn’t a part of any of that shit, how can you even think that?” </p>
<p>He ignores this. “And you didn’t think this was information I should know? You expect me to believe you didn’t know that anything was going on? You’re not <em> stupid</em>.” He spits out the word, quietly, like he believes the exact opposite. As you are getting louder, his voice is lower in volume, and this reminds you of how Erwin shrinks before pouncing.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know <em> exactly </em> what it was. I knew something was off, but I didn’t know it was that bad, I swear! What would you have me do? Quit?”</p>
<p>“Yes!”</p>
<p>“Oh, right, as if it’s ever that simple. This is one of the most expensive cities in the country, let me just quit a great job because something unpleasant is going on.” </p>
<p>Never in your life did you think you would have to flip pancakes during an argument, but you find yourself completing the action in one fluid motion. This is something that, under happier circumstances, you would have looked to him for and shared a smile about.</p>
<p>Instead, Erwin jumps off the counter when Spencer starts shouting, and you don’t think he notices either of these things. “‘<em>Unpleasant? </em>’ He was committing fraud on a massive scale! Why couldn’t you come to me about this? Why didn’t you feel like you could say something, anything, to me?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, because you’re <em> so </em> easy to talk to about complicated stuff. Rhetoric and history, you’ll talk for hours, but anything about people? You’re the one who can barely have a conversation about what we are to one another. Seriously, Spencer? The truth is I have no fucking clue how you would have reacted. And I don’t think you even believe me right now.”</p>
<p>Your comment about how he doesn’t understand people has hit below the belt, you know this, and the only thing stopping you from taking it back is that you think you might start crying angry tears. You hate the way you cry when you yell, but sometimes it is the only thing stopping you from going too far.</p>
<p>His tone is cold. The dim lights of the kitchen no longer seem cozy, but forbidding. “How can I trust you? You didn’t even tell me you lost your job until today. Who knows if you were ever going to say something to me- Paul got arrested yesterday for public intoxication, and all this only came out because of dumb fucking luck.”</p>
<p>The first time you’ve heard Spencer Reid say “fuck”, and it’s in a sentence where he’s wrong. The world surprises you every single day.</p>
<p>“Do you know how ridiculous this makes me look?” he asks, breathing hard. He’s gotten much closer to you over the course of this altercation.</p>
<p>“You’re right, I should have considered how this would impact <em> you</em>,” you sneer. “I’ll probably have to break my lease in a couple months, but this is <em> such </em> a big problem for Doctor Spencer Reid!”</p>
<p>“Don’t <em> call </em> me that-”</p>
<p>In two short, swift paces, you have crossed the space between you because you are <em> so sick of this</em>, and you cut off his words by firmly reaching up to the collar of his dumb little vest and pull at the fabric until his mouth is hot against yours. </p>
<p>His response is immediate. Without breaking the kiss, Spencer takes hold of your waist for the second time today. You find yourself lifted up, then seated on his kitchen counter, syrup be damned. He kisses you furiously, hands seeking, and your own hands immediately curl into his hair. Then you tug at it, just sharply enough so that the two of you break the kiss for a moment to make brief, overwhelming eye contact, and his face seems devoid of its usual acuity. </p>
<p>What you see in his eyes should be foreign to you, you certainly have never seen him look like <em> this</em>, hungry and wanton, but you’re sure he sees the same thing in you. And then his mouth is on your neck, likely leaving bruises. </p>
<p>“You could have let me help,” he half-gasps, and his breath is heaven against the skin of your neck. Under other circumstances, it might feel like he is gripping your waist too tightly, but as it is it feels perfect. It feels right.</p>
<p>“It was complicated,” you reply shakily. And when you wrap your legs around him to pull him closer, it feels like there has never been distance between you, that the core of your existence has been boiled down to encompass only your tongues and short, startled breaths. Then he is tugging at the hem of your t-shirt, not enough to remove it yet, but questioning.</p>
<p>You drag your fingers down the side of his face to cup his jaw and trace it with your fingers and feel the stubble starting to grow there. You nod, gasp his name, and then your shirt is gone, rumpled on the floor, and you have undone two of his vest buttons when the smoke alarm goes off. </p>
<p>It snaps you out of your stupor, and you see that smoke is unfurling from where the pancakes smolder on the still-lit stove. But it takes Spencer a couple seconds too long to figure out what is happening, and this image of him, confused, with raw pink lips and mussed hair, quickly becomes seared into your brain. You will see it again, later that night, when you are trying, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep; you will think, not for the first time, how even the smartest men are made into idiots by lust.</p>
<p>In order for him to walk over to turn off the stove, he places a hand on your thigh as a reminder that the two of you must untangle yourselves. You uncross your ankles and let him go. Your hands begin to feel cold where they touch the granite of his countertop.</p>
<p>While he turns the burner off and tosses away the burnt breakfast food, you hop down from the counter, pick up your shirt and use it to wave away the smoke until the beeping stops. Then you pull it back over your head. </p>
<p>Spencer turns towards you, bracing himself against the sink. Once again you stand opposite one another, two moderately wordy people with nothing to say just yet.</p>
<p>Your own irregular breathing feels like a reminder of those precious few minutes. There is no doubt in your mind; you cannot continue on like this, surviving on half-confessions and pleas to not talk about jealousy, on some wordless agreement that you care for one another. You need to say something. One of these days, you will explode from the pressure of it.</p>
<p>“I’m good with complicated,” he says eventually, as if you are just picking up on your conversation, and it takes you a minute to figure out what he’s referring to. When you do, you shrug, dubious. </p>
<p>“Sometimes. But you’re not right about everything,” you say, trying to make your voice soft, but you feel incredibly jagged right now. Your words are too breathy. “It wasn’t dumb luck that Paul got caught. I went to Garcia and I asked for her help. I was <em> doing </em> something about it.”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t make it any better,” he says harshly. “You should have come to me.”</p>
<p>“I’m kind of glad I didn’t, now,” you respond, grinning. </p>
<p>“Is this a joke to you? Is this funny?” How can he still find it in him to be angry right now?</p>
<p>“No, it’s not funny, but what do you want me to do? What’s done is done. Maybe I could have done things differently. But I didn’t, and you need to get past that, or… Or you won’t. Can we talk about what actually matters, now? I can’t keep ignoring the elephant in the room.”</p>
<p>He throws his head back in exasperation. The sigh that emanates from him is too shuddery, and then he says “fuck” for the second time this evening. When his hands grip the edge of the sink all you want is to have them back on you. “I can’t.”</p>
<p>And the two of you stand in his smoke-filled kitchen with the dim lights, syrup knocked onto the floor and ruined pancakes in the garbage, until he begins to clean up. </p>
<p>You watch him for a minute before beginning to help. The first few pancakes you made are fine, if a little cold, and the two of you lean over the countertop to share a plate and eat them. If he needs this time to process, so be it.</p>
<p>“That’s too much syrup,” you say. “It’s creeping into my territory.”</p>
<p>“No such thing,” Spencer says as he carves out another segment of pancake with the side of his fork. It doesn’t really bother you, but he tries to sop up some of it with his own pancake nonetheless. His elbows are up on the counter, sleeves rolled up. He will never see himself like this, you realize. He will never know exactly how he looks, cutting pancakes without the use of a knife, with his vest barely buttoned and his neck still pink, from anger or arousal you honestly aren’t sure. And this image, too, becomes lodged in your head, taking up an exorbitant amount of space along with all the others.</p>
<p>He says, eventually, “It’s not very likely that one stays in their first relationship. And I don’t want to lose you. We talked about this.”</p>
<p>“<em>You </em> talked about it, when we barely knew each other. But, Spencer, you were so worried about being the one to ruin this. Did you ever think I might feel the same? That absolutely everyone ever thinks that they’ll be the one to fuck up a good thing? That I didn’t tell you about the whole stupid forgery thing because I thought I might lose you?”</p>
<p>“But you wouldn’t have. I would have done whatever I could. Even if I couldn’t help, you wouldn’t have lost me. You know that, right?”</p>
<p>“Do you hear that? Your certainty? That’s how I feel, too.”</p>
<p>He seems surprised again, and his constant shock makes you feel that you haven’t been doing your due diligence. </p>
<p>“Spencer? You know how I feel about you, right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. We’re friends.”</p>
<p>“If you do that with all your friends, your job is way more interesting than I already thought it was. <em> Sorry</em>,” you say immediately. He doesn’t seem pleased with your joke. “I’m not great with this, either. But I would like to be able to kiss you without having to shout first, if that’s something you’d like, too. If that clears things up at all.”</p>
<p>For someone who took your shirt off ten minutes ago, he sure is blushing at the mention of a kiss. “It is. And it does.”</p>
<p>“Spencer? Look at me.” He does. “It isn’t about statistics. It’s just about waking up and choosing to live pretty much our same lives every day. We make it up as we go.”</p>
<p>“I don’t personally know anything about dating. Not really. Except that it’s about trust. And you haven’t trusted me, and... I don’t know if I trust you right now.”</p>
<p><em> Ouch</em>. Keeping a secret the entire time you’ve known a guy might do that to him, but it still feels like a punch to your gut. </p>
<p>So the two of you finish your pancakes, and you tell him everything. Almost. </p>
<p>You tell him about how after you were hired, you noticed a wide variety of people heading straight to the basement. These people varied from the obviously rich to obviously sketchy. You noticed how Paul would watch you carefully, at first, but you kept your mouth shut and looked the other way. And over the course of a year, he let his guard down and his drinking became more obvious and he had you do these random errands. The estate sales, where you really did just sift through dead people’s junk for cool books. And sometimes he would come with you to pick up a large trunk of books, and it was a coin toss whether you’d unload them or he would bring them down to the basement alone.</p>
<p>So, yeah, you suspected something almost immediately, but come on. People commit crime. It’s been in almost all of our lives, from underage drinking to going to pick up weed. That’s different, you might say. Sure. Different things are legal for different people. Kids slip items into their pockets at stores. The clerks look away when the white ones do it, sometimes. Everyone is a liar and almost everyone is a criminal in one way or another, and you were ninety nine percent sure Paul wasn’t committing grisly murders or anything like that. He treated you well, and would give you the day off if you were sick. It’s more than you can expect from a lot of employers. And the hours worked for you. </p>
<p>Only last month had you gone downstairs and seen the passports. And you are being honest with Spencer when you tell him it didn’t bother you, because at least it wasn’t coke or severed heads. Paul fired you, and you took that sheet of paper, had that sleepless night in which some things really clicked. And you put together your half-baked plan to have Garcia dig up what was going on, since you’re pretty sure Paul isn’t adept enough with technology to hide his finances very well. And he’s got deep-rooted authority issues, so he  would probably end up leading them to the evidence with his misplaced suspicion. And even if he didn’t, he’d be in the drunk tank when Garcia uncovered his little operation.</p>
<p>You leave out Lyn, because you don’t think what you did was illegal, but you’re not going to sell her out if it was. She works in a school, for heaven’s sake.</p>
<p>“But I didn’t know the extent of it. I swear to you, I only had my suspicions for a long time, and even what I guessed right felt way over my head. I didn’t know what to do. So I get it if you don’t trust me. But I’m telling you the truth now, as best I can.”</p>
<p>He sighs. He looks tired, you realize. It has been a long day for both of you, and it’s gotten late. “I need some time. Is that okay?”</p>
<p>“Of course it is. That makes sense. And, whatever you decide, I’ll understand. Spencer? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>And you offer to head out, knowing full well that he is going to let you walk away, but you've got some wild slice of hope that he will pull you back into his arms and ruin his kitchen again. But he just nods, lost in that head of his. The sweet taste in your mouth now feels more cloying than anything else.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“I didn't want to kiss you goodbye — that was the trouble — I wanted to kiss you good night — and there's a lot of difference.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Ernest Hemingway</b></p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(fuck hemingway but dang what a quote)<br/>Long note, sorry! So, this was a fun chapter, it's one I wanted to write since a friend sent me the song it's based on. The next chapter is a little long and a bit of a break from the story in some ways, and then we're back to the pining with a smidge of angst. I will definitely continue to post Mondays, but I might not do my usual mid-week post because I have a winter class with a pretty demanding workload and I'm gonna try and balance that as best I can. That said, I feel like I'm leaving this week's post on a fun note. ;) </p>
<p>This is the link to the <a href="https://my-usual-lipstick.tumblr.com/post/639421781%204738176/the-smartest-idiot-you-know-playlist">playlist on tumblr</a> with a few songs I have come to associate with this fic, and why I like them. It's got links to Spotify! I only just joined and just like Looking At Things and don't see myself posting on it much, but if any of you guys wanna ask questions or communicate I'll probably respond!<br/>the songs for those of u who don't wanna use tumblr: </p>
<p>“Bookstore Girl”, Charlie Burg<br/>“Say My Name”, Prince of Eden<br/>“friendship?”, Jordy Searcy<br/>“Sailing”, The Happy Fits<br/>“don’t worry, you will”, lovelytheband<br/>“I Think We Danced (But I Can’t Be Sure)”, Rand<br/>“I Wish You Love”, Marvin Gaye cover<br/>“Two Slow Dancers”, Mitski<br/>“Pancakes for Dinner”, Lizzy McAlpine<br/>“I Dare You”, The Regrettes</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Ice Cream (and Other Breakup Essentials)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your friend Sarah is visiting for the weekend, and meets Lyn. content: alcohol and marijuana</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've been hit with a couple research papers and a touch of writer's block, but don't worry, chapter 19 got finished before all that happened! I'll try and post it sometime this week, but I like to leave a buffer between finished chapters and stuff I'm working on. Thanks to everyone providing feedback, I never anticipated this kind of attention for my first fic! I appreciate it more than y'all know. And now, for our unanticipated girl gang...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could've, would've happened... or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.”</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>― Tupac Shakur</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Thursday</b>
</p>
<p>Missing a good friend is like nothing else in the world. Sometimes, the ache of missing Sarah Abraham fades and the phone calls almost make you feel like she is there with you; keeping up with her life on social media almost makes you feel like you know what she’s up to. <em>Almost</em> is the operating word in both instances. But knowing that Sarah currently on her way to visit makes your Thursday downright agonizing, as if it wasn’t going to be already. </p>
<p>She’s in town now, actually, her plane arrived at two thirty, but you still have your standing reading at the library, so you’ll have to wait and meet her at your apartment later. </p>
<p>School is out, but this only means that your audience has increased, and the program runs later. Last summer, you weren’t always able to come in for the extended hours, but this summer it appears you do not have a job. </p>
<p>This is why you’re still there when you hear your name spoken by a humorless, strict voice.</p>
<p>You turn from where you’re reading alongside one of the kids. The best part of a program like this is when they gain the confidence to read to <em>you,</em> stringing along their words so carefully that you don’t understand how anyone could dislike kids. Like, at least be nice to their faces; they’re all just learning, all the time. Every day they know more useful things than they did the day before. You used to miss feeling that way, and then you met Spencer Reid. </p>
<p>“Yes?” You don’t recognize the man in the suit, who is the type of tall person who appears to owe his height to strict posture. His face seems like it is permanently furrowed. Jack hops up instantly.</p>
<p>“Daddy!” </p>
<p>“You must be Jack’s dad,” you say, rather obviously, and realize there is no need to introduce yourself. He knows your name.</p>
<p>“Aaron Hotchner.” He extends his hand, and you stand up from the child-sized chair to shake it. “Do you know who I am?” It’s like he watches you put the pieces together. </p>
<p>“I’ve only ever heard you referred to as Hotch. Of course. It’s good to meet you, Agent,” you say. The look on his face, combined with the fact that you’re standing in the children’s area of the library and you just got up from a plastic yellow chair, makes you feel as though you’re about to be reprimanded by a teacher. You’ve got a blue crayon notched behind your ear and your shirt has a high neckline, despite the fact that it’s June, to cover up the aftermath of yesterday. You did a good job with concealer, but there are children here, and you don’t want to be answering any questions. They're all so curious, all the time. </p>
<p>“Jack,” he says, turning to his son. His face softens instantly. “Why don’t you say goodbye to your friends? We’ll head out in a little bit.”</p>
<p>The blonde boy nods and runs off, with the exuberance only five year olds possess, to where a few kids are coloring.</p>
<p>“I take it Garcia followed through and called Reid?” You nod. “I’m aware you had asked her to keep this matter private, but she noticed some unusual financial activity, as well as suspicious phone records. She did her due diligence in reporting it to me.”</p>
<p>“Right.”</p>
<p>“I should formally state to you that Paul Winter is under arrest and being investigated for assisting in the falsification and sales of government-issued documents, as well as the lesser charge of forging false historical documents and certificates of authenticity. But I take it that’s why you asked her to look into him.”</p>
<p>“Yes. Well, I figured, when he fired me… Something was off.” You manage to stop yourself from tacking on the word “sir”. You briefly tell Hotch about how you had snagged the loose sheet of paper on your way out the door after you were fired and put the pieces together. “I didn’t get anyone in trouble, did I?”</p>
<p>He is a closed man, but you think you see surprise flit across his features. “Not quite. Garcia does a lot of what she likes to call… research, and she does it on her own time. The bureau accepted it as almost a condition of her employment, given her... history.” The way Aaron Hotchner says the last word results in you making a mental note to question Pen about this later. </p>
<p>He pauses, as if to digest the look on your face, then continues. He is hawk-like, and it should put you on edge, but your mind is occupied with the obvious question of how he interacts with Spencer. Do his edges soften? Is Spencer more jagged, at the BAU? You have never seen him at work, and can't picture him there, despite the way it bleeds into the rest of his life. You cannot picture him wearing Hotch's practiced, impartial expression.</p>
<p>“It’s not unusual for her to have looked into this, but when she found something, she had to come to me. Once the bureau became aware of this, it was passed onto the Department of State, but due to the personal nature of your friendships with some of our team, we all received a memo. A note was made in Garcia’s file, and I had her reach out to Doctor Reid first as a courtesy. I understand the two of you are close.”</p>
<p>You wonder if Hotch had a bet in the kissing pool, and if the results will ever be released to the team. </p>
<p>“They checked the basement?” you cannot resist asking. “I was never allowed down there.” Was it really that easy? Is Paul so predictable?</p>
<p>“Winter was being held, originally on the basis of refusing a breathalyzer test when local police were checking out a public intoxication tip, but it became clear he assumed it was for another matter. The premises were searched once he attempted to implicate you as a courier for some false passports.”</p>
<p>“Do you guys need me to come in, or something? Can I help? Am I in any trouble?”</p>
<p>He almost smiles. “Again, it’s not going to be investigated by the FBI. You will be contacted and questioned by some agents at the Diplomatic Security Service, but their first priority is to build a case against Winter, especially since Reid made it abundantly clear that you had no notion of what was going on. They will want you to answer some questions, but you only need to tell the truth.”</p>
<p>The word “What?” falls from your lips before you could even hope to stop it. You think he reads it as relief that you aren’t in any trouble. It is, and also a reaction to the news that Spencer has bent the truth. </p>
<p>“Miss, we see a lot worse than this every week. Although the FBI doesn’t handle these matters, Spencer contacted agents at the state department and impressed upon them that you contacted Garcia the moment you were aware of any illegal activity, and spoke with him shortly after she confirmed your suspicions. You handled everything completely by the book. The word of a federal agent is no small thing, and Reid’s record is damn near spotless.”</p>
<p>You blink, dazed. “Well, thanks, Agent Hotchner. Thank you. This has been super helpful, I was really worried. I wasn’t sure what to do.”</p>
<p>Jack comes up and tugs on his dad’s pant leg, asks something about ice cream. You’re glad he interrupts, because you don’t think you could lie to someone who leads a team of people whose whole job is to sniff out lies. The words that had left your mouth are true, but Spencer lied. For you. You’re not sure what that means.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Your elevator stops at the third floor and then all thoughts surrounding the law and FBI agents have been forgotten because<em> Sarah is here right now</em>. Lyn promised to let her in and you never did get around to installing that deadbolt, so when you open your front door you see Lyn curled up on your couch and a head of curly hair making tea in your kitchen it makes perfect sense. It feels right.</p>
<p>Some moments are unanticipated but familiar all the same. She beams at you, and her smile and the running hug and brace for impact feels like she has turned your four walls into a home. You have hugged her probably hundreds of times, but it has been so long since the last one.</p>
<p>“I missed you so much,” you say into her neck, and for a minute it’s just rushed greetings and observations about one another because you last saw her months and months ago. It is about how you look better-rested than she has ever seen, and she’s gotten a new tattoo, fine black lines that make up a swarm of bees on her brown skin. </p>
<p>You turn to thank Lyn and invite her into the embrace when you see that she is curled up on your couch, asleep. “I think she’s been crying,” Sarah whispers to you.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>The two of you catch up at your kitchen table over a bowl of strawberries, and you learn that Sarah has a few months of travelling ahead of her, she is going to backpack across Europe before the next semester begins, and she’ll be starting out in Paris. Her flight leaves from the airport on Monday. She knows you well, doesn’t miss a beat when she asks why you’re wearing a mock-turtleneck on such a warm day, and goes so far as to pull the neckline down a bit and gasp your name scandalously.</p>
<p>“<em>Tell </em> me it’s the cute FBI agent with the black cat! I can’t fricking believe that you wouldn’t tell me the two of you are together?”</p>
<p>Even having lived her twenty five years, Sarah does not often swear, reminding you very much of a character on a television show who should be able to say “fuck” but substitutes some lesser word instead. You spill the beans, recounting, for what feels like the millionth time, the forgery operation and how you were fired. And then you tell her about last night. Spencer is currently ruminating on whether or not he can trust you enough to continue where the two of you left off.</p>
<p>You’re immediately punched in the arm.</p>
<p>“You got <em> fired? </em> Babe, why didn’t you call? Are you okay?”</p>
<p>It dawns on you that you used to feel like you could only lean on Sarah, but you went to Lyn for this one. You think it’s a good thing, including more people in your bubble of comfort. “I’m fine, actually. A few places have been publishing my stories and then actually responding to my invoices and paying me. I’ve only got a few more months if I keep it up, but I’m applying to places. But I think I’ll be okay.”</p>
<p>“How were you sitting on something like this for months? No, a year? Dude!” She sounds more impressed than angry.</p>
<p>When Lyn finally wakes up, she trundles over to where you keep your vodka. She’s got raccoon eyes again, glitter smeared across her eyelids but mascara tracked down her cheeks. She is slumped over and wearing more layers than usual, a long sleeved shirt with a men’s tee over it and a beanie over her unwashed hair. She is devoid of her usual assortment of rings and earrings, and this one detail makes her appear smaller, less finished.</p>
<p>She pours what sounds like two shots of vodka into a mug, downs it without so much as flinching, then two more that she tops off with a little bit of passion fruit juice from your fridge. “Clarissa dumped me last night,” she says hoarsely. </p>
<p>Sarah has known Lyn for only a couple hours, but she has a way with people you could never hope to understand, and it doesn’t seem unnatural for her to flit over to the freezer and drop a few ice cubes into Lyn’s glass and rub her back. She refills the tray and puts it back. </p>
<p>“What happened?” you venture. </p>
<p>“She got some design work out in LA, couldn’t turn it down and she said she didn’t even want to try long distance, not that I was suggesting it. She couldn’t wait to say it, though. Christ,” she sighs. “Can I invite Penny over?”</p>
<p>You find yourself reverting back to old habits and checking for Sarah’s slight nod as Lyn takes another swig, and then you reply that Penelope Garcia would be a delightful addition to the evening.</p>
<p>She arrives with boxed wine and open arms, and then all of you form a circle on the floor of your living room with fruit and cheese and crackers on the table in the center. You put on a CD, removing Marvin from his place and putting in a mix Lyn had made for you. You were a little nervous about Lyn rolling something in the presence of an FBI agent, but both of them assure you that it’s fine, they’ve smoked together before.</p>
<p>“I set up a fun little program that automatically changes ye olde test results as soon as they make it into the system. I think Hotch might be onto me, but he hasn’t complained yet,” Penelope explains, and this causes a string of laughter from Sarah. Your friend goes on to ask more questions than you have dared to ask Penelope directly about how much, exactly, she abides by the FBI rulebook. She seems too cool to have read it cover to cover, or else exactly cool enough to know every rule and just how to dodge it.</p>
<p>Lyn is sadness clad in black cargo pants. “One night,” she says dramatically, exhaling smoke from the joint she has rolled on your cheap coffee table, right next to the bowl of mixed berries you set out. A teacup is her ashtray. “I get one night to be sad and the absolute center of the universe, and then tomorrow will be at least a little better.”</p>
<p>“Cheers to that,” you say, and Lyn passes the joint to you and allows Penelope to pour her another mug full of cheap red wine and then steal her into a passionate conversation about maybe going on a walk around the block to go get some ice cream. </p>
<p>You turn to clarify to Sarah that this is not a usual night for you, normally you don’t have music playing or the windows open so that smoke filters out, but she has an expectant smile that moves her freckled cheeks and creases her warm eyes. “What?” you ask her.</p>
<p>“Honey, can I just say how nice it is to see you like this? I think I saw the inside of your apartment twice back in New York, and I never met your roommates, let alone your neighbors. Two years ago, you never would have let people in like this. You seem <em> good</em>.”</p>
<p>“I do, huh?”</p>
<p>“Makes me want to move to D.C. Is it something in the water here?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think it’s the place. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. I just… I like my life, now, I guess. And there was a time when I never felt like I would.” It’s good to finally be spending the currency of time you’ve been allotted. We only have so much of that. “But if you really did move here I would love that.” </p>
<p>“Wouldn’t be for a couple years.” She begins telling you that a couple schools in Colorado are looking like the place to be when she finally gets to teaching, and you reply you think a visit to warmer climes would be welcome, and your conversation lulls a little when Lyn gets louder.</p>
<p>“It’s <em> hard </em> to fall for people,” she says, and you become a little more attuned to that conversation. “Do you feel that way? Like it’s so much damn effort to let yourself feel okay in a good thing.”</p>
<p>“I hear that, sister.” Garcia clinks her mug against Lyn’s. </p>
<p>You do not find it hard to become devoted to a person. You never have. It’s always been far too easy to embrace the way someone can make you feel good instead of empty. Maybe you should have stopped yourself, with Spencer, or slowed it down. But you let yourself say yes to too much and now it feels too late to do anything about it, even if you wanted to. And you don’t want to. He’s ivy, and you’re a brick wall, and maybe you will just have to crumble in time. You don't say any of this to Lyn right now, of course, just nod supportively.</p>
<p>“Like, every time I let my guard down, they go. Seriously? I don’t like starting over.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes I think that the fear of starting over stops us from leaving something we know isn’t working,” Sarah chimes. </p>
<p>Garcia finishes her mug and turns a startling pink color. “I can’t drink wine,” she says, and pours herself some water from the pitcher resting next to the teacup-turned-ashtray. </p>
<p>You decide to pass on any wine offered to you, still not fully recovered from the last time you drank with Lyn and Garcia, but all of you smoke, you and Sarah significantly less than the other two, but everyone is game when someone mentions walking to the store around the block for some less healthy snacks.</p>
<p>“Not that your bowl of fruit wasn’t great, sweetie,” Penelope says. It feels funny, that Pen knows you well enough to reassure you about this. To recognize that you just want to nourish people and have it acknowledged. When you giggle in response, everyone follows.</p>
<p>And she is still waxing poetic about how ice cream is not only the cure to breakups, but many of life’s other problems, when you run into Spencer on the ground floor of the building. He’s got some groceries. Among them, you notice wryly, is more syrup, the shape of a maple leaf jar outlined against the flimsy plastic grocery bag.</p>
<p>Penelope greets him with an overly exuberant hug and you briefly introduce Sarah, unable to fully make eye contact, and then the three of them have rushed out the door and left you talking to him. <em> Of course. </em></p>
<p>He doesn’t speak. Being so far from him feels wrong, but you cannot trust yourself in your current state to not get carried away, so you hug your arms to yourself instead and try to stand up straight. Your mouth is dry as you look for words. “Spence- Hotch spoke to me, earlier.” </p>
<p>He doesn't seem stoked about that. “Really?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. He was picking up his kid at the library, must’ve recognized me or else showed up just to talk to me. Explained some stuff. You spoke to someone over at the state department?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he mumbles. </p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>“I told you I would help.”</p>
<p>“I know. And I’m so sorry Spencer. I really am. I would do it all differently, if I could.” </p>
<p>He doesn’t forgive you like you’d hoped he might, and his voice cracks a little when he says, “Which part?” </p>
<p>“Wha- no, not that. Never that. The honesty thing.” It’s too difficult not to embrace him, when you see the way his tongue flits over his lips to wet them and his neck begins to flush.</p>
<p>You are glad he isn’t making eye contact with you, right now, as you give him a hug he can’t quite reciprocate because he’s holding groceries. Isn’t this what the two of you keep doing? How long will each of you continue to catch the other a little off guard? You never leave enough room for a response, just whisper another <em>thank you</em> before letting go.</p>
<p>The two of you speak at the same time. You both have too much air in your voices.</p>
<p>“Are you free tomorrow-”</p>
<p>“I really should catch up to them-”</p>
<p>“Oh, well, soon then, we should talk.”</p>
<p>“It’s just, Sarah’s only in town a couple days, I promised her we’d go to the Museum of Natural History and hang out the whole time she's-”</p>
<p>“Yeah, no, definitely, I understand.”</p>
<p>“I’ll see you soon, okay? In a couple of days.” It will feel like no time at all, you’re sure. His work takes him everywhere; now it’s your turn to be busy for a while. He is far from the center of your solar system, but boy does he screw with your orbit. </p>
<p>“Sure. See you.”</p>
<p>“Bye, Spence.”</p>
<p>When you look back over at your shoulder at Spence waiting for the elevator, red is creeping even further up his neck. You try not to think of how, less than twenty four hours ago, you were indescribably close to him, causing that. Those hands gripping the grocery bags were on <em>you.</em> It seems like it should be easier to mark him as yours; he takes color so easily. He glances back at you, and you smile before exiting the doors of the building. The waiting is agonizing, but you are filling the time with friends. </p>
<p>“He <em> is </em> cute,” Sarah says in a stage whisper once you’ve caught up to the three of them waiting outside. You are trying not to grin, but your mouth seems fixed in an open smile despite the worry creeping in.</p>
<p>“I was acting normal, right? Do you think he cared that-”</p>
<p>Lyn cuts you off with an extravagant flourish of her arms, and she manages to make her massively oversized band shirt appear majestic. This, combined with the glitter still tracked under her eyes, makes her a force to be reckoned with. She seems both world-weary and incredibly youthful. </p>
<p>She proclaims, “No talk of men tonight. This is my evening, so nothing about Doctor Oblivious or that hickey on your neck, okay? It’s my time to wallow.”</p>
<p>Penelope gawps and you tug self-consciously at your neckline, but you’re pretty sure it’s covered up. Lyn just has a second sense. “Yeah. I agree. Sorry.”</p>
<p>“I forgive you, my love.”</p>
<p>Being a little high in the grocery store before it’s even dark out feels strange; the fluorescent lights feel like too much, as though you can hear them buzzing and leeching joy from your skin. Penelope corners you in the candy aisle and questions you about the hickey on your neck, even though this is against the dumpee’s rules. “What happened to you?”</p>
<p>You try to be vague. “Oh, you know. A mouth was there.” She’s not having it.</p>
<p>“I am going to die and then ascend and then return back to my body if it was Reid.”</p>
<p>“Uh…”</p>
<p>“If the two of you come to Rossi’s dinner party tomorrow, you know, <em> together</em>, everyone would flip. Who wins, then? Derek had within a month, I don’t think anyone else thought he’d seal the deal before December. But since we’ve got our own side bet going on now, I think he wins that one. Guess that’ll teach me to bet against the profilers about human behavior.”</p>
<p>“Pen, promise not to say anything, okay? We haven’t sorted it out yet.” You omit that Derek was probably the winner a long time ago. “Plus I want to thank you and apologize. I heard you got a note in your file? I’m so sorry. But your help made a huge difference to me.”</p>
<p>She seems genuinely nonchalant about the whole thing. “Do you know how many notes are in my file, honey? Probably more than your boss ever forged.” </p>
<p>Ice cream is acquired. You feel bad for the teenaged cashier who is spending her summer in aisle two, but a little less so when Lyn buys her a chocolate bar and tells her not to tell kids from school she saw Miss Valdes out on the town acting “cool as fuck”. </p>
<p>Successful in your quest, all of you stand out and look at the street, transfixed by a particularly loud yellow sports car that screams down the road. Lyn has her pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie, Garcia’s got some tiny cookies, and Sarah has selected some honey straws she found in the organic section. You’ve got your gummy bears. The four of you stand outside of the grocery store, watching as the sky turns from blue to the orange promise of a sunset, holding what appears to be the perfect breakup dinner.</p>
<p>“What now?” Sarah asks. </p>
<p>“C’mon,” you say, decapitating a bear with one easy bite. “I know a spot close by.”</p>
<p>It’s not a good park, but it sure is a bench and a beech tree with a good view of the setting sun and a few buildings that look prettier when bathed in a golden glow. You and Lyn squash together on the bench as Sarah and Penelope exchange their snacks on the patch of grass.</p>
<p>“Do you guys ever just want to frame a moment?” you ask.</p>
<p>Penelope nods. “There’s not enough sunsets in the world. It’s sad.” </p>
<p>“‘No, if the sunset stayed and we got bored, that would be a real sadness’.”</p>
<p>“You and Wonder Boy were made for each other, I’m just begging you, hon’.”</p>
<p>“None of that right now, Pen,” you tell her, but something inside you glows fiercely.</p>
<p>Lyn sniffles, scoops some more chunks of brownie out of the pint. “I feel like we’re forgetting that this moment <em> sucks </em> for me.”</p>
<p>You place a couple gummy bears inside the pint as some sort of repayment for your callousness. “Sorry. How are you holding up?”</p>
<p>She slumps against you. “I want to cry again. But I don’t really <em> want </em> to. I liked her. I didn’t love her, but I liked her a lot and it still sucks, starting over. I feel like there’s some kind of defeat in a breakup, you know? Like, there’s nothing I could have done, but I lost anyway.”</p>
<p>You can only see it from your perspective, and you have a special fondness for beginnings. So you say, “Then go ahead. Someone very smart always tells me to cry if you’ve got to. Let it out.” </p>
<p>Sarah, munching on a tiny cookie, glances at you, charmed. Just occupying the same few feet as her feels unreal, after so much time apart. “You only lose if you aren’t true to however you’re feeling. I’m sure it isn’t easy for her, either.”</p>
<p>“I want to just move on to being fine. I’ve done the crying thing so many times, and every time I think the next one will at least be a little easier, it isn’t. Sometimes it’s worse.”</p>
<p>Sarah nods. “That’s because everyone is new.”</p>
<p>“Do you think people ever really leave you, though?” Penelope asks. “I like to think that there’s a lot of different Penelopes out there and there’s one that only I know, and one that you know. If my exes met Kevin, none of them could agree they were talking about the same person. That’s a little lovely, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Lyn moans, “Shit, Pen, that’s depressing. That just means every day that passes she knows me a little less.”</p>
<p>You think that maybe you have a tendency to write a new story over finished relationships, and you put a different version of yourself into them. Maybe one version of you loved too hard too soon, or some other version of you expected an unrealistic amount in return. And the person you were with, they are a polarizing figure in your head, either wonderful and perfect because you miss them or, if you don’t, you try to claim they were never any good for you at all. You usually write your exes into this slightly altered story as villains; it is simpler to claim that he never cared about you as much as you did for him, or maybe she was always trying to break your heart. It’s ridiculous, if you really look at it. You were just people, doing your best, and your best wasn't right for one another.</p>
<p>You say, “What if you decide that isn’t depressing? What if it’s good, that you’re growing? And you each helped each other do that? Just… look at it differently.”</p>
<p>Lyn looks up at you from where her head rests on your shoulder. “Would you say the same if Doctor Vest decided to stop hanging out with you? If he says to you tomorrow, ‘hey, baby, I’m leaving forever, and don’t ever talk to me again?’ How long would it take for you to look at a sunset and feel happy about it?”</p>
<p>“That’s an awful imitation of him,” you say, dodging the question. “Seriously. His voice isn’t that rough.”</p>
<p>“But, really, I mean it. How long?”</p>
<p>Breaking a heart happens accidentally, sometimes without warning, like losing control of a car on a rainy day, or else it happens little by little until you finally notice that you’re on the wrong side of the road and it is too late to swerve away from the oncoming headlights. No one wants to fall asleep at the wheel. You answer Lyn as honestly as you can. </p>
<p>“I get your point. But I would know that wherever he goes, he’s different because we met. And so am I. I’m different for knowing you, too.” You give her a kiss on the forehead, above her eyebrows but below the cuff of the beanie. “We change everyone we know even if it’s only a little bit, good or bad. Even if our ending with them is shit, we come away different. Hell, I’m a vegetarian because I had a convincing neighbor. And I’m happier for knowing all of you.”</p>
<p>Lyn scrunches her nose. “You’ve got gummy bear breath.”</p>
<p>“Suck it up, Valdes.” You shove her playfully, and it becomes a tussle and the next thing you know you are sitting in the grass with Sarah and Garcia.</p>
<p>“Maybe this sunset isn’t so bad,” Lyn says. “Ice cream helped.”</p>
<p> You cannot stop thinking about <em> Dandelion Wine, </em>for some reason, the way that book just aches with the promise of nostalgia. It makes you want a past that was never yours. “‘A good night sleep, or a ten minute bawl, or a pint of chocolate ice cream, or all three together, is good medicine.’”</p>
<p>“One down, two to go,” Sarah says, leaning against your other shoulder. Penelope hands you one of the last cookies in the box, passing it past Lyn, who takes another one, and you give her your last handful of gummy bears. Not the most nutritious dinner, but a filling one, somehow. You are very focused on trying to memorize how it feels to be you right now, having some of the best people you know pressed against you, looking out at the sunset the way you imagine religious people look at the halos on their saints (or how Clarissa looks at Surrealist art). Tiny chocolate chip cookies from the sale aisle of the corner market are your act of communion. They are only improved by the company and the setting. </p>
<p>You say, “Penelope? Can I ask you something?”</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“When Hotch referred to, uh, your ‘history’ earlier, what’d he mean? Only if you don’t mind me asking.”</p>
<p> The four of you, some new friends, some old, watch the sunset as Garcia tells you what she calls “the civilian-safe adaptation” of her past. You watch the gold ease itself from the buildings for the second day in a row, replaced by a cool blue as darkness makes itself comfortable around you.</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“No matter how hard you try to be what you once were, you can only be what you are here and now.”<br/>― <span class="authorOrTitle">Ray Bradbury, </span>Dandelion Wine</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Lukewarm Coffee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You get questioned by the state department, meet a handsome but unnerving stranger, and get a phone call at 3AM. content: mention of alcohol and addiction, heavy intoxication</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>Jane Austen, </b> <b> <em>Northanger Abbey</em> </b></p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Friday </b>
</p>
<p>You are called and asked to come in and speak with some special agents from the state department. You apologize to Sarah, and promise her that if you are not in jail by the end of the day, you can definitely go out to eat and check out the museum.</p>
<p>“Again, my life isn’t usually like this.”</p>
<p>There is that twinkle in her eye again, a sense of pride that seems to be directed towards you. “Hey, when it rains, it pours. I think Lyn could use the company anyways. I’ll do a little shopping, see you later?”</p>
<p>“Definitely.” You hug her on your way out the door, and it’s so damn easy. It is like lying on the grass again. It’s like breathing in summer. “I’m so glad you’re here.”</p>
<p>“I can’t wait to tell everyone from school that you’re a criminal now.”</p>
<p>“Shut up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The interrogation, if you can call it that, turns out to be somewhat dull. It’s being called a “formal inquiry” and takes place in an office, not some small room with a bright lamp pointed in your eyes like you have always imagined. </p>
<p>It takes longer than you’d thought it would. There is some deep-rooted trepidation that comes with entering this new, terrifying government building. At least FBI headquarters was an intimidating space with the warmth of one fiery technical analyst who was willing to help you. Now, there are only people who see you as a witness to something, and not a whole person.</p>
<p>Yes, Hotch had said you need only tell the truth, but he was under the opinion that you hadn’t known for more or less eleven months that Paul was doing something illegal. You saw something, and you most certainly did not say something.  </p>
<p>Two men in suits who offer you water and have incredibly forgettable names ask you a great many questions. In your head, you refer to them as Blue Tie and Green Tie. Green Tie seems younger, a lot more committed to detail. Blue Tie looks like he’s days away from retirement and just wants this over with. </p>
<p>To Green Tie you repeat, dozens of times, that you had no clue up until very recently that Paul Winter was doing anything illegal. Yes, you lie, you would have reported it. </p>
<p>“You worked there for a year, right?” He’s standing, while the other man sits and drinks his coffee with half-closed, sleepy eyes.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And you had no suspicion of wrongdoing?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Why did you think he had only one employee?”</p>
<p>“I love the place, but… it wasn’t very well-run. I figured I was the only person he could afford.”</p>
<p> “Winter claims you collected passports for him.”</p>
<p>“I would never do something like that.”</p>
<p>“Did you ever pick things up for him?”</p>
<p>“That was part of my job, yeah. He had me do odd jobs, collect old used books. I used his truck to get around because I don’t have my own car. But nothing illegal.” </p>
<p>“So, you may have unwittingly moved false identification for him?”</p>
<p><em> Oh, shit. Maybe. </em>“Well-”</p>
<p>Blue Tie clears his throat. His words are gravelly and slow. “Jason, the special agent with the FBI who brought us this case already asked her this. We’ve got a signed transcript of his discussion with her, so please don’t treat her as hostile. She brought this to their attention. Alice has a softball game later and I’d like to be there. Next line of questioning.”</p>
<p>Signed transcript? You’ve never had any formal conversation with Spencer about this. How far does his lie for you go?</p>
<p>After Green Tie (Jason) gives up on trying to get some dirt on you, things get boring. It turns out that they are less interested in your own suspicion of Paul Winter’s activity, and much more interested in your descriptions of his clientele. Trying to wrack your brains for people you intentionally tried to not see is exhausting. You are honest, up to a point, and that point is when they ask you who phoned in the tip.</p>
<p>“It really could have been anyone,” you lie, and it is easy to lie through your teeth to these strangers who work for the state department. “We have plenty of regulars who have been coming to this store longer than I’ve worked there.” You would like to leave it at that, but it seems they’ve got a whole packet of photographs. You can only identify a couple of people, and that’s flimsy at best. The thought of your favorite regular, Leon, being involved with this thing makes you chuckle.</p>
<p>What feels like hours later, Green Tie asks <em> again </em> if you knew he was involved with something on the scale of transporting false passports. You play dumb, and this is easy because he clearly thinks you’re stupid. “You mean this isn’t about those Civil War letters?”</p>
<p>“No, ma’am,” Blue Tie says. He has been checking his watch every few minutes for a little while now, clearly disinterested in your lack of information. “Winter will have to be confronted on the grounds of forged certificates of authenticity by his customers on a case by case basis. They’ll have to prove intent. We’re more concerned with tracking down the wanted criminals he was helping escape the country.”</p>
<p>“He really didn’t have all that many people come by the store. Or, if he did, he would give me the day off.” It’s most of the truth. “So, wait, do I need to go to a different agency to talk about the letters?”</p>
<p>You angle your face down as if to look at some papers they’ve given you, and then look up in a way you are well aware widens your eyes. You try to keep your face blank and as stupid as you can make it. Green replies, “His forged letters weren’t very convincing to anyone with a trained eye, from my understanding of it. Private suits probably won’t come in until Winter is in prison. If they haven’t figured out they were being conned yet, they likely saw what they wanted to see, or they were buying with the intent to sell to some private collector.”</p>
<p>It’s pretty damn boring, most of the questioning. It seems that the fun parts of being the alleged “good guys” is reserved for fleeting moments which you are not a part of. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Spencer is right, cop coffee is somehow worse than what they have at Folio. <em> Had</em>, you think with a pang. It’s been closed for days. You sit in some kind of breakroom for nearly an hour after your questioning as they type up your statements, and you’re reading them all carefully and signing them as you drink some lukewarm coffee. They’ve also given you a copy of the alleged transcript with Spencer, which makes you look like a saint. You get the feeling that without this, you would have been questioned by someone other than the new-cop-old-cop duo that went relatively easy on you.</p>
<p>A man gets his own styrofoam cup at the coffee maker, and instead of leaving he sits down next to you. At first you don’t look up, because he’s honestly just another white guy in a suit, and you want to get out of here. Then he says your name.</p>
<p>You try to smile with your eyes, but you feel too exhausted to give that to him. “Yes?”</p>
<p>He looks familiar. He’s older than you, probably about thirty or more. The electric lights of the breakroom bear down on you and you find yourself hunching around your papers defensively, though of course if he’s here and he knows your name, he probably knows what you’re signing.</p>
<p>He extends his hand. “Jeffrey Winter. So, you’re the one who finally put my dad away?”</p>
<p>Are you supposed to take it, still? You shake his hand quickly, resigned to doing so. “Uh. Sort of? I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“No, don’t be. I never had the balls to. Or the connections, it seems.”</p>
<p>“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say to that.” So that’s where those eyes are from. They’re the same gray, but the fact that they are focused and sharp catches you off guard.</p>
<p>“Let me start over. I don’t begrudge you for what you did. I never wanted any part in my father’s business.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Well, once I knew what was happening, I couldn’t stay there. I was studying to be a lawyer.” He smiles crookedly, in a way you suppose is supposed to be charming. It is, a little, because he’s handsome. His teeth are painfully white. “Can’t have any dishonesty associated with my profession.” </p>
<p>“Are you going to testify against him? Help him with his case?” You’ve spent too long tiptoeing around the agents’ questions and you have no energy for anything but the blunt truth now.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’ll be taking the stand and speaking to what little I know. As I expect you are,” he says pointedly, knowingly. Fair enough. “You worked for my father for about a year? I was never very involved in the family business, especially after the death of my mother. It was difficult for me to be there. She loved that store.”</p>
<p>You’ve never heard anything about Paul’s wife. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. It was really her who kept it afloat as a business. From what I’ve heard from my father - which isn’t much, lately - you’ve taken to it. ”</p>
<p>You respond in what you hope is not too many words, but despite your weariness you end up pouring over with good things to say about the place, the work you did and the musty smell that all estate sales have, the surprises you would find there. </p>
<p>“I miss it,” you admit. You almost tell him how it was like a home to you, how it reminds you of your youth, escaping the public spaces you didn’t always feel quite right in, but decide not to. In a roundabout way, you’ve put this guy’s father at the mercy of federal agents, and you don’t think you would want to hear this if you were in his shoes.</p>
<p>“So, you liked it there? You managed a good bit of the front end?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’d say so. I didn’t have a ton of resources to change anything, but nothing went really wrong. Well...” you trail off, rethinking those words.</p>
<p>“Good. Would you like your job back, but with a little added responsibility?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Saturday June 5</b>
</p>
<p>“Oh, <em> wow</em>, that is something else,” Sarah says. She is both in awe of the massive T-Rex skeleton and the news that you were offered your job back, but better. Jeffrey had told you about the pay increase that would come with managing Folio.</p>
<p>“And then he told me that he wants as little to do with the place as possible, that I would be in charge of hiring staff and managing. Actual staff. Not just one person. And he gave me, like, an estimate of the budget I’d have so I could make changes, so it runs like an actual business. We’d be in the phone book and everything.”</p>
<p>“This is lovely. I’m so happy for you. They really think this thing had feathers?” The thing you love the most about Sarah, you think, apart from the fact that she used to be the only person alive keeping you on your feet, is her unadulterated enthusiasm for others’ successes. </p>
<p>“I told him I’d think about it. And, I don’t know, maybe. Not sure how they’d know.” <em> Spencer would</em>, you think, then try to banish the thought from your mind.</p>
<p>“What? Why?”</p>
<p>“Well, how are they supposed to reconstruct anything from just bone? Try reconstructing a human from bone and you’d probably forget how squishy we are.”</p>
<p>“No, why didn’t you accept the job on the spot?”</p>
<p>“I feel sort of suspicious of him. Like, I don’t know, I feel like he could have found someone else, someone with experience managing a business. Why me? He thinks I’m responsible for his dad getting arrested.”</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah. Because you are. And it sounds like that’s what he wanted, but couldn’t do himself? Maybe this was just the path of least resistance. <em> Maybe</em>,” she says, checking out the pamphlet you’d both been handed on your way in, “he feels bad about you losing your job for no reason. A job you only had because he didn’t want to work for his daddy.”</p>
<p>Jeff’s business card feels like it’s burning a hole in your pocket. “Maybe,” you say, doubt evident in your answer.</p>
<p>“Now, c’mon, I want to go see the gardens.”</p>
<p>Another thing you love about Sarah. You could look for hours at long-dead animals people cannot seem to recreate with any kind of assured accuracy, but she is compelled to find the flowers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Sunday, 3:09 am</b>
</p>
<p>Sarah is staying in your bed, it’s certainly large enough, and so she wakes up, too, when your phone rings in the middle of the night. You answer, assuming it will be Spencer letting you know that he’s on a case. Although, you realize once you’ve already answered, he usually waits to call until he knows you will be awake.</p>
<p>“Hello?” you say blearily.</p>
<p>Derek Morgan is on the other end.</p>
<p>“What the hell did you do to him?”</p>
<p>“Huh?” You look at the clock on your bedside table. The red numbers tell you it is just past three in the morning. You only went to sleep two hours ago, thanks to Lyn bringing you and Sarah out to another club, where you’d thankfully chosen to pace yourself and had just two drinks. She claims to be celebrating school being out, but you think she just wanted to get drunk. You feel groggy but sober. </p>
<p>“Reid. What’d you do to him?”</p>
<p>“<em>Me </em> - what did <em> I </em>- that’s rich. What’s going on? Is he okay?” </p>
<p>“I’m not sure. I think he had too much to drink at Rossi’s.”</p>
<p>Sarah’s brow is furrowed and her eyes dazed. “Wh- what’s going on?” </p>
<p>“Shh, nothing, go back to sleep,” you tell her. She turns over and takes most of the blankets with her. You pad out into the kitchen and turn on a light. In the background, Spencer sounds like he’s listing a string of numbers. “Okay? How can I help?”</p>
<p>“Well, the kid isn’t saying much other than some math shit and your name.”</p>
<p>It still isn’t making any sense to you. “Do you need me to come by and get him? I don’t have a car but I could call a cab-”</p>
<p>“No need, we’re already in one, but I figured you could help him into his place. And just talk to him ‘til we get there, see if that’ll get him to be quiet. The numbers are getting a little annoying, no offense, Reid. Nothing? Alright, have it your way. Sit up, kid,” he says, his voice far away as the numbers slur together even more. </p>
<p>And then you hear Spencer’s voice, drunk and listless. “Zero, three, five, six. Uh- three, seven, zero, seven again.”</p>
<p>“Spencer? Spence? What’s up?”</p>
<p>When he slurs your name into the phone he sounds happy. “It’s you.”</p>
<p>Usually, when he says your name, you feel happier than this. Hearing him like this… it’s a blow to your senses. It wakes you up instantly, but you frown into the phone. “Yeah, it’s me. What’s going on? How are you feeling? What’s up with the numbers?”</p>
<p>“I can’t do it,” he says. </p>
<p>“Can’t do what?”</p>
<p>“I can’t- can’t finish it. It just doesn’t end. It’s an irrational number.” He laughs on his end. This chips away at you as well.</p>
<p>“Are you reciting the digits of pi?”</p>
<p>Distantly, Derek’s voice says, “She can’t see you nodding, pal.”</p>
<p>“I am.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“A distraction.”</p>
<p>“From what?”</p>
<p>“Too much going on right now. Doesn’t make sense. Pi makes sense. It’s irrational.” His laugh seems more garbled than before. “Six, six, zero, one-”</p>
<p>“What doesn’t make sense? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“There’s no <em> solution</em>,” he says, clearly stressed. “I can’t put it on paper and solve it. ‘S just a question.”</p>
<p>“What is?”</p>
<p>But Derek has taken the phone back. “Alright, we’re heading into the building now.”</p>
<p>“I’ll meet you guys on the ground floor.”</p>
<p>The elevator doors open, and while Derek is strong, Spencer’s body is limp and provides very little assistance when it comes to moving him. “Damn it, kid, you’re killing me here.”</p>
<p>He looks off, too slack and unaware. Spencer told you, very recently, how when you were blackout drunk your whole face lit up in happiness to see him. When he sees you, he seems surprised. You wonder if he felt like this, pained to look at you. But there is an urge in you to make it better. “What’re you doing here?” he asks.</p>
<p>Derek rolls his eyes. “Man, you <em> just </em> spoke to her. Be cool.” To you, he says, “I think I’ll help bring him up.”</p>
<p>“Please,” is your reply, eyeing Spencer as he leans against the wall of the elevator. “How was dinner?”</p>
<p>Spencer says, “Two, nine.”</p>
<p>Derek says, “Really good, for the most part. Rossi pretty much always makes carbonara. He’s got a nice outdoor dining area and a pretty extensive wine collection. I think that’s where this one went wrong. Party ended, and we went back to my place, and he started spouting this nonsense after a few more drinks. Should have cut him off, but by the time I noticed how many he put away, he was long gone.”</p>
<p>Spencer seems drunk in a bad way, a slippery-slope, crossed-some-kind-of-line way, because he is an addict and someone who doesn’t even like being drunk in the first place. “What’s wrong?” you ask softly.</p>
<p>His eyes are sad and unusually devoid of life. “There’s... no answer.”</p>
<p>“To what?” He shrugs. “Why pi?”</p>
<p>“No conclusion. No natural end.”</p>
<p>The elevator reaches the fourth floor. Derek all but carries his coworker, and you fish Spencer’s keys from his pocket. Erwin is delighted to see his owner, and curiously nudges Derek with his nose. He promptly tries to climb him. You pick the cat up, smiling a little.</p>
<p>Derek seems to notice that, despite the fact that the apartment is dark, you barely have to feel for the switch on the wall, and you don’t stumble around the furniture, even with a cat in your arms. Erwin purrs. You’re pretty sure you could get around blindfolded.</p>
<p>But you’ve never been in Spencer’s bedroom before. You deliberately have never even opened the door. A bedroom is a deeply personal space; you’ve only caught glimpses of it if the door has been opened because Spencer needed to go in. While Derek roots around in Spencer’s dresser, you look around tentatively. The fish tank on his desk glows faintly blue, and there are more books in here. His plain, neatly made bed has a pale blue duvet, and dark green curtains are drawn over the window along the wall. His desk is cluttered, and he’s got some art prints framed up on the wall. The hamper is overflowing with dirty clothes. It is pretty much exactly what you expected, which should be disappointing, except that this proves you know him. And that you have spent time imagining his bedroom.</p>
<p>Derek finds some sweatpants and a shirt for Spencer, so you set down Erwin and go get his owner a tall glass of water and the ibuprofen from his bathroom while he dresses. Only last week, the roles were reversed, so at least one good thing that’s come of that is that you think you know how he’d like to be treated.</p>
<p>“He decent?” you ask Morgan from outside the bedroom door. He nods. You present Spencer with the glass of water, making sure he sits up in bed to drink it, and leave the pills on the bedside table, right on top of a stack of books. One thing you’ve noticed, with all your time in Spencer’s place, is that he doesn’t arrange his books by any particular order. It makes sense to him, probably, just as the way you organize your fridge makes perfect sense to you but mystifies him. You don’t understand one another, not fully, but you don’t need to. All you have to do is try. </p>
<p><em> Northanger Abbey </em> rests below one of Rossi’s novels, and on top of that is a slim volume that looks like a personal journal. He’s got a candle there, you notice, the same eucalyptus one he gifted you, and it’s nearly finished. This makes you smile. There is no better gift than one you would enjoy yourself.</p>
<p>“How are you doing?”</p>
<p>His expression is clouded in a way you’ve only seen once before, when he was kissing you, but he seems duller, softer. Sadder. “Seventy nine.”</p>
<p>“What’s that, now?” It’s not a single digit, so it can’t be pi.</p>
<p>“How many days we’ve known each other. Wait- Sunday. Eighty.” </p>
<p>“Huh.” The collection of days you’ve known Spencer Reid blend seamlessly with the rest of your life, standing out only because you have felt more nourished than you have in years. “It’s been a good eighty days, for me.” </p>
<p>You feel kind of selfish, saying this, knowing that his days are filled with gore and loss. And then you feel stupid for feeling selfish, because you should be allowed to be guiltlessly happy. </p>
<p>Sometimes you think about your own happiness the way you used to feel back in science classes; you could never get the hang of Chemistry. You recognized, as a fact, that atoms make up everything. You believe everyone else who speaks as an authority on this, but it’s not wholly comprehensible to you that this should be the case. The <em> why </em> of it eludes you. You’ve since accepted both your own happiness and the makeup of the universe as things that simply <em> are</em>.</p>
<p>“Haven’t had so many good days in a long time. You help. You help more than you know. Was bad, before. Didn’t even know it.” He looks like he might cry. Derek steps out of the room, gives you space, quietly. You’re grateful; this doesn’t feel like something he would want anyone to hear. <em> You </em> feel strange hearing it.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m happy to help.”</p>
<p>“You do. Can’t lose that.”</p>
<p>What is it like, to be alone and working at the BAU? It sounds like some sort of cruel punishment, to only be close to those who have seen the same things as you, to have no reprieve from the reminders of the full-time horrors. How did he do it?</p>
<p>“You won’t.”</p>
<p>“I think I could screw it up, somehow.”</p>
<p>As someone who used to be more than familiar with this way of thinking, you know words are useless against it. You kiss his forehead, moving his hair out of the way. It’s growing fast. Then you tuck Spencer into his bed, tightly, remembering how carefully swaddled you had been in his situation. He’s lying on his side, facing you, hugging his pillow. He looks years younger than his age.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong, Spencer? What happened?”</p>
<p>“There’s a limit. Can’t go on like forever. I know I have to do something, but ‘s too loud in here.”</p>
<p>The only noise is the water rushing through his fish tank and Erwin’s breathing from where he’s finally settled on the other pillow. The occasional noise of a car driving outside feels commonplace, living in an apartment in the city. “Is there anything I can do? Do you want a fan on?”</p>
<p>“In <em> here</em>. In me. Wanted to slow it down. Couldn’t find an answer.”</p>
<p>He said once that he doesn’t like the lower level of understanding that comes with being drunk, but you suppose if he wanted to quiet his head, this is one way to do it. “Answer to what?”</p>
<p>He shakes his head, and nuzzles into his pillow more. “Missed you tonight. You’re everything, you know that?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“If you left I couldn’t- couldn’t go back to it. Being alone.”</p>
<p>“That’s too much,” you whisper, fear creeping in. “You’ve got to know that’s too much.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he says innocently, not registering the panic in your voice.</p>
<p>“Does that seem fair to you? At all? You’ve never been <em> alone, </em> Spencer,” you insist fervently. “You’ve got a family here.”</p>
<p>You’re getting up to go speak to Morgan, but his hand manages to escape the blankets and wraps around your wrist. “Don’t go,” he breathes. His grasp is gentle, and you could break it easily, but you don’t. You hold his hand, allow your fingers to become laced together. </p>
<p>“Spencer…” you start. You wish it were easy to tell him how you feel, in no uncertain terms, to leave no room in the corners of that head of his for overthinking. Even with him nearly asleep, you can’t do it. What if it goes wrong? “Why would I ever leave you?”</p>
<p>His face is relaxed and unworried. You are filled with an emotion you can only describe as tenderness towards him, and despite the fear welling up in you, it feels warm and right. After a minute, you squeeze his hand, gently. “I’ll be right back. I promise. I would never just leave like that.” </p>
<p>He murmurs what sounds like just the word “promise” and you slink out of the room and close the door, gently, behind you. The thud of its closing feels wrong in your ears.</p>
<p>You’re not sure if you can find it in yourself to be anyone’s everything. Not right away. But then you think of that being reciprocated, of Spencer willing to bend for you, in ways you have already seen. The thought creeps into your spine and keeps you upright. He certainly hadn’t seemed like the type to lie to federal authorities, before. Spencer Reid, being yours, different in some tangible way, because of you... it toes the threshold of pain.</p>
<p>“I’ve never seen him drunk before,” you tell Derek. If you sound a little shaken, it’s because you are. </p>
<p>“I’ve never seen him like that either. Not from alcohol, anyways.” He pauses, unsure whether to continue.</p>
<p>“He told me about, well, the Dilaudid.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He sizes you up, then. “He’s not usually… Yeah. You know. What’d you do to get him like this?”</p>
<p>“What makes you think this is my fault?”</p>
<p>“Oh, she’s got jokes?” Despite his light tone, Derek crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. If this was one of <em> your </em> friends, and you were in his position, you’d be suspicious too. “He’s not the most open person, and you two have gotten close. You’re what I would call the most recent and obvious factor for this change of behavior.”</p>
<p>Defensiveness creeps into you. “Look, last time we talked everything seemed fine. I saw him two days ago and I told him we’d hang out when my friend leaves town. She’s staying with me now and I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s not like I have to spend every second with the guy. But we’re <em> fine</em>.”</p>
<p>“Nothing you’re leaving out? Please don’t lie to me.”</p>
<p>Your neck feels warm. “Um… let’s just say I think Pen owes you some money.”</p>
<p>He chuckles. Derek looks a little more at ease, hearing this. “Good. So, finally, you and him…?” His voice trails off in the obvious question, his thick eyebrows raised.</p>
<p>“No. Well, I don’t know. It feels more confusing than it probably should be.” You’re blushing for real now, and anxiety knots in your stomach.</p>
<p>“Can I say something?” You wave your arm in a gesture to go ahead. Derek doesn’t seem like the type of man to not speak what’s on his mind. “I’ve known Reid for years. He’s not a coward. You don’t work this job as long as he has and scare easy. But people are afraid of the unknown, it’s human nature. Psych 101. I think that’s what he means about not having answers. He just needs a push in the right direction. He doesn’t do many things without being certain of the outcome.”</p>
<p>This all makes sense. “But there are no outcomes with people. You can’t predict that.”</p>
<p>“He does his damndest, is all I know. Why else do you think he’s a profiler?”</p>
<p>“I just wish he’d- I don’t know. How do I convince him of all the things that could go right, and not just wrong?”</p>
<p>Derek shrugs. “That’s something I don’t have the answer to. Good luck with him. I mean it. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”</p>
<p>You shake your head. “It’s okay, really. I’m… paying him back a favor.”</p>
<p>It's like his eyebrows were hand-crafted to look a little scandalous whenever they raise in surprise.“Let me buy you a drink sometime soon, because I want to hear that story. He doesn’t tell us anything, you know? I’m starved for details.”</p>
<p>This has its successful intention of lightening the mood a bit, and you thank Derek, lead him out of the door, and rush downstairs to leave a note for Sarah. Then you go back to Spencer’s. A quick peek into his room makes you think he’s sleeping fitfully, but as you’re closing it to go sleep on the couch, you hear him murmur your name. </p>
<p>“Yeah?” you say, not without trepidation. It isn’t easy to see him like this.</p>
<p>“Don’t leave.”</p>
<p>So you don’t. How can you?</p>
<p>At first you are just sitting next to him on top of the covers, resting your head against the headboard, curled up with your knees pulled to your chest. You smooth his hair back again, since it has a way of falling where it likes. </p>
<p>“Why pi?” you whisper, quietly enough that it will not wake him if he’s fallen asleep. </p>
<p>But he’s awake. It’s like he was waiting. “Infinity.”</p>
<p>“I got that. Why?”</p>
<p>“Everything ends.”</p>
<p>And you decide not to ask him to elaborate. “I’m gonna go crash on the couch, Spencer.” You keep your voice at a whisper.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>You kiss him on his forehead. Leave it to him to be pretty much shitfaced and still inquisitive. You’re pretty sure you’re not quite this talky when you’re drunk, but then again, recent events have proven you’re capable of letting things slip. He smells like alcohol and the inside of a taxi, but underneath that, under everything else, he smells like he always does. Like Spencer Reid. You could pick him out of a room with your eyes closed. It's a little sad, to know you've memorized him like this. It feels a little pointless.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to sleep, silly. Get your rest.”</p>
<p>But now, when it is most inconvenient, he asks you to stay. He even says please. He didn’t ask that of you a few days ago, when you’d left after kissing him and wanted so badly to hear those words. But now, when your eyelids are heavy and he smells thickly of red wine and whiskey and not enough like him, he does. “You promised,” he adds. He sounds so childish, pouty, it nearly makes you smile. Nearly.</p>
<p>“I’m staying. Just a little further away. Let me get my rest.”</p>
<p>“You promised.”</p>
<p>You sigh, too exhausted to argue with him. You’re pretty sure even drunk of his ass, he’d win. “I did. And I keep my promises to you.”</p>
<p>And so you find yourself underneath the pale duvet cover, albeit keeping as much distance between you as is possible. You do not touch, at first. He seems content with this because soon, his breathing slows and keeps a steady enough pace that you know he’s asleep. He’s facing you, and sleeps fitfully, frowning every once in a while and saying things that aren’t meant to make any sense to those who are awake, the frightened murmurs of someone with frequent nightmares. You take hold of his hand, then, where it rests near the pillow, and the talking ceases shortly after. You look at his fingers interlaced with yours. You do not fall asleep for a long time, captivated by the eventual calm on his face that you did not know you were missing. You did not know this kind of peace was possible, for him, and you are determined in some masochistic way to take it all in even if it means you are exhausted tomorrow. You look at the way his hand folds around yours, like it belongs there. You want to take in this sight all night, the vision of him wanting you to stay. But eventually, you must have drifted off, because you wake up in an empty bed with a note of apology on the pillow next to you, and Spencer Reid on a jet to who knows where, all before you have even washed the smell of his sheets off your skin. Your hand is empty.</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“I drink to separate my body from my soul.”</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>― Oscar Wilde</strong>
  </p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ik this is a little later than usual, but I have been Overwhelmed by my winter class and general sadness/fatigue. This is one of the last chapters I had all written and ready to go, so it might be a bit slower going from here on out, but I can still promise an update for next Monday. Hope you're doing well wherever you are</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Coffee Grounds and Runaway Tuna</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sarah leaves, and now you're waiting, until you aren't.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“I’ve always wondered why love has to be so full of conflict and strife. Why can’t love be simple? Why can’t it just be as pure as two people who realize that they can’t live as well, or as happily, apart as they can together?”</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>― Bella Andre, <em>Come A Little Bit Closer</em></strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Sarah cannot stay forever, only the weekend. The hug you share at the airport does not last long enough. “Give Paris hell, please. Send postcards.”</p><p>“Keep me updated about your life choices this time, not just the little stuff like you flirting with the guy who lives above you.”</p><p>“Little stuff? C’mon.” You feel like you keep her up to date. Right?</p><p> “Well, tell me about something like working for a <em> criminal </em>next time that happens. Sheesh. Just keep me in the loop, would you?”</p><p>And what’s funny is how the thing with Paul wasn’t a big deal until it was. But Spencer feels both of an entirely different world and too much a part of yours. The thought of Spencer and a tangible future feels like standing on a precipice; he blends in with the rest of your life all too well. </p><p>“I will. I promise.”</p><p>You cry a little as she leaves and then you buy a roll from Cinnabon as you exit the airport; it’s expensive, and too saccharine, but you eat the whole thing with tears drying on your cheeks. You were craving cinnamon rolls. This doesn’t quite do the trick.</p><p> </p><p>You want to call Jeffrey on Monday and tell him yes. <em> Yes, please pay me more than fairly and give me a cool project in a place I adore. </em> There is no time limit on his offer, not explicitly, but it does no good to wait on these things. But you’ve got to do something else, first, so you wait.</p><p>Spencer texts you that the case was a quick one, and he’ll be flying back soon, no need to come by or feed Erwin in the afternoon. It’s not a great sign that he’s texting instead of calling. He hates texting, only suffered it when you first met and he didn’t feel comfortable discussing how far, exactly, his aversion to technology extends. So you wait, you wait until the evening, and you spend the day lost to your laptop in your favorite cafe, stitching together a few of your favorite stories together with a common thread. Your waiting is filled with the smell of coffee grounds and the good music they play in this cafe, so it is bearable.</p><p>When you just get tea and a cup of overpriced yogurt, Aidan looks at you archly, but you say nothing. On their break, they ask, “Can I sit with you?”</p><p>You nod. Aidan has round, pink cheeks that appear to be constantly blossoming with some new easy smile. Their short, shoulder length hair is a fading orange that reminds you of the sunsets you have enjoyed. In short, they are a pleasant person to be around, especially when your stomach is coiled with nerves.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m due for a break anyways,” you say, realizing you have exceeded your expectations for writing in the time you’ve been in the cafe. Say what you will about nerves, but they give you energy.</p><p>“What are you working on?” they ask. </p><p>“I think it might be a novel,” you realize. </p><p>“Neat.”</p><p>The two of you chat about how relieved they are for school to be out for the semester, their final grades. You assure them that one day, it will feel like a distant memory, be that a good or bad thing. There is only the present.</p><p>“Would it be over the line to ask why that tall guy who always comes in knew you? And then the two of you took off? He always comes in and he’s kind of awkward, but nice.”</p><p>Yeah, that’s Spencer. “Oh, he’s…” Your upstairs neighbor? An FBI agent who helped you out of what could have become a tight spot? A guy who has seen you blackout drunk, and you’ve helped him out in a similar state? Someone who you harbor a great depth of emotion for? “...my friend. I hadn’t told him I lost my job, and we’re close. I think it bothered him more than I thought it would.”</p><p>Aidan has a quiet gentleness about them, and you know they won’t pry any further unless you offer up more information. “Sorry to hear about that. This place is accepting applications for the summer, if you’ve got any experience as a barista.”</p><p>“Not formally, but I’m decent with the espresso machine I’ve got at home. Actually, I’m thinking about accepting an offer I got recently. But thanks.”</p><p>“Yeah, man, anytime. And… I’m not sure if it’s my business, but I’ve got to say, I saw him look at you when you weren’t paying attention. And before he started seeming sort of, uh, sad, he looked at you in a way that made me take notice. In a good way. And I’m sort of, well, I’m absolutely garbage at reading people’s expressions, so that’s saying something.”</p><p>Huh. You would like to see the way Spencer looks at you when you’re unaware of it. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”</p><p>You wonder if the jet has landed yet.</p><p>The two of you chat more, exchange phone numbers. You’ve got similar taste in music, and you resolve to ask them over for dinner sometime. If nothing else comes from having met Spencer Reid, you know now that you will spend the rest of your life trying to share food with people you wish to know. It makes the transition from acquaintance to friend so much smoother. You can always fill the awkward silence with tasks.</p><p>You leave the shop around four, and walk straight past your apartment, down to the grocery store on the corner. It feels like ages since you’ve been grocery shopping, and your pantry and fridge are both dangerously understocked. Besides, you’re procrastinating a little bit, even after all that waiting you’ve been doing.</p><p> It comes as something of a surprise to see him there, illuminated by those unflattering fluorescents. Somehow, he still looks damn good.</p><p>You push your cart towards him, where he appears to be engrossed in the ingredients on a label for cream cheese, and tap him on the shoulder, careful not to startle him. He doesn’t take well to suddenness. He turns, looks surprised to see you. A flash of emotions thunder across Spencer’s features, you think you manage to pick out embarrassment, but it is overwhelmed by a smile which breaks through the clouds. </p><p>In his basket, he’s got a ridiculous amount of shredded cheese for someone so sensitive to dairy. “Hi. How’ve you been?”</p><p>“I missed you,” are the first words that spill from your mouth. You have never said them so explicitly to him. You have said <em> I missed you </em> with quiches or by rearranging his fridge. You’ve said it by reading the books he recommends and texting him book reviews without needing a response, because he always responds in person, always remembers every word you’d typed out to him. You have done anything to not have to say those three words out loud, as if they were on the other side of the line keeping things tidily separated. Let’s be honest, that line has been crossed enough times. “While I’m being honest, I thought I’d say that I missed you. A lot.”</p><p>“I missed you too.” He pauses, unsure. “How’s Sarah?”</p><p>Even through your delight at seeing him, you feel a pang that reminds you she is on her way to another continent. “She’s great. It was really nice seeing her... Sorry that your introduction was so brief.”</p><p>“I’m glad you had that time together.” He is earnest, a little quiet in the way he speaks to you. He appears to be treading softly. “You seemed happy she was back and from what I heard from Garcia, you guys had a nice time. Is Lyn okay?”</p><p>And you find yourself shopping alongside him, pushing your cart and telling him about Lyn’s breakup with Clarissa and how resilient she appears to be. You pick out some avocados, and he tells you about how the last case was, fortunately, a quick one. And then he picks up more garlic powder and asks you about your week, so you tell him about Penelope deciding chocolate ice cream was the answer to sadness, and you mention the beauty of sunsets in June.</p><p>Not all of these subjects feel like they matter, really, or- they do matter, but they have faded in their urgency. The questions <em> Do you trust me? </em> and <em> Do you remember last night? </em> pulse on the tip of your tongue. But when he needs his time to think, it seems best not to prod. Spencer reading words from a page and Spencer processing his own emotions seem to work at two radically different paces, and you’re not about to be the first to bring up the state he was in. Not yet. </p><p>And it is so nice to feel like things are normal again. Like they are easy, the way they were before you first kissed, or just after, when you were pretending you would not kiss again. </p><p>For much of this conversation, you look anywhere but his face, pretending to carefully read the labels of things you normally would have just tossed into your cart without a second thought. You are selecting coffee grounds when you tell him how Jeffrey has offered you a job. </p><p>“That’s great news,” he says. </p><p>“Yeah? What do you think?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I’d like your opinion. It didn’t ring any alarms at the time, but once I left I started second guessing. Do you think he’s trying to… get even?”</p><p>Spencer cocks his head. He is reading you, with some kind of intention, and though you fidget under his gaze, you don’t protest like you usually do. It seems like you owe this to him, so you let him profile you a little. “Why are you asking me?”</p><p>“What do you mean? I value your opinion. And if he’s being skeevy, I want to get a professional’s input. In the name of honesty.” </p><p>“Do you believe he’s being straightforward?”</p><p>“I think so.”</p><p>“Then I think it’s a good idea to take the job. I could have Garcia look into him, if you’d like, but you wouldn’t be breaking any rules to go back even if the investigation is still pending, and… I know how much you liked it there.”</p><p>“Maybe I’m a more vengeful person than him, but I can’t imagine being in his position and choosing to act that way.”</p><p>“But you’re good,” he says quickly. “You’re good, and sometimes we can’t </p><p>figure out why people do things, try as we might. Or why they want them.” He fixes you with his large brown eyes, like he’s longing to say something more. </p><p>“But it’s your job to know why people want things,” you say, only half kidding. </p><p>He fidgets with the basket, averts his eyes. “I’m not so good at that with you.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I can’t imagine you would want me.”</p><p><em> What? </em> </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Now it is his turn not to look at you, instead choosing to fidget with his woefully understocked grocery basket. Apart from the cheese, there’s only some tinned cat food and ice cream. It’s a wonder he hadn’t died of malnutrition before you got the chance to meet him. “Come on, I mean, it’s not exactly like we’re… matched very evenly. You’re… <em> you… </em> And I’m...”</p><p>It seems that he can put himself in the headspace of serial killers, but doesn’t know why you’d consider pursuing him.</p><p>You have a rule that you try not to curse in public spaces where there might be children, but right now there don’t seem to be any running around. The words from your mouth sound like a hiss. “<em>Spencer fucking Reid. </em> Do you seriously not know what I see in you? Has that been all the fuss? You’re…” You are always spilling over with things to say about him; he is smart and funny when he wants to be and considerate as all hell. He’s beautiful. He is the opposite of charming in the most endearing way. He is honest. All you can do is curse again. “<em>Fuck</em>. If you think I’m out of your league, you’re even stupider than I thought.”</p><p>Spencer throws a pensive smile your way. He thanks you like he doesn’t believe it. “I remember the way I acted last night. I hate remembering it, but it’s been playing through my head all day. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me, to ask for what I did.”</p><p>You speak gently, saying, “You don’t have to apologize for that, but I’ll accept it. I mean, I’d say you would do the same for me, but we both already know that.” </p><p>“I shouldn’t have overstepped and made you stay with me-” He’s embarrassed at the very mention of the memory. </p><p>“You didn’t make me do anything,” you try to convince him. “I didn’t mind, seriously. I want to be there for you.” You hesitate, embarrassed. “Honestly, I’d just prefer to be there with you under better circumstances. Sober ones. Happy ones. I want to be with you, Spence, really.” </p><p>His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He is thinking too fast again. He always is. “I’m stuck, I think, on the idea of losing you eventually. Not right away, but when the dopamine and oxytocin flooding your brain wear off and any initial attraction goes with it. And you’re just left with me.”</p><p>“I care about <em> you, </em> no ‘just’ about it. I like your genius and idiocy all wrapped up in one. I don’t think it’s going to wear off, Spence. It isn’t just a physical thing- and, don’t get me wrong, it’s a physical thing, too. But I don’t mind taking care of you; you take care of me, too. It’s <em> fine</em>.” Better than fine, if he’d just open his eyes. It could work. </p><p>“It just seems like a lot to put on one person, to say losing you would be that bad for me. I don’t want you to think I meant everything so literally, I know I’ve got a family here, and I’m lucky to have them. And if the pressure-”</p><p>You try to cut him off. “Spencer.” How are you ever going to get through to him when he can debate every little thing, store every concern he’s ever had and address it tidily?</p><p>“If the pressure was too much, I think I can take a step back. I was <em> really </em> drunk, and I don’t want that to sound like an excuse because, I mean, it’s true but I should have been more considerate. You are a big part of my life now, but <em> - </em>”</p><p>“Spencer.”</p><p>“I could definitely ease up if you want more of your own space, I can be stronger, I just thought I was never supposed to have something like this and it makes me-”</p><p>“Spencer, I mean this in the best way possible, can you <em> please </em> shut up?”</p><p>He does. There is a very real glimmer of fear in his eyes, and you’d like to shake him, or somehow let him inside your own head, where he could see all your thoughts of him and all the questions you’d like to ask. You want to know everything that makes him tick, and you think you’d be okay with him knowing you. </p><p>But he can’t see himself through your eyes, so you attempt to say what you’re thinking. It’s difficult. </p><p>“I don’t <em> want </em> to take a step back. I’ve had enough space from you. We could get this right, we really could. If anyone can get something right on the first try, it’s you. There’s no great meaning to it, I think, no destiny to romance. <em> ‘Supposed </em> to have something like this’? Come on. That would be nice, but isn’t choice more beautiful, choosing trust and commitment for someone you care about? We have to make that life. I like you <em> so much</em>, moron,” you say, and his face lights up with something close to hope and it gives you the courage to keep talking. “So why can’t we just choose each other, every day, for as long as we want? I promise to keep on choosing you. And maybe that’s an oversimplification, but I think it’d balance out with the way you’re overcomplicating things. We’d guess, for a little while, and then we’d just go with what works.”</p><p>“Like your cooking.”</p><p>“Exactly like my cooking.”</p><p>“And if the recipe isn’t… working?”</p><p>“We change it, find something we both like. We’ve done it before.”</p><p>He nods, but it is the nod of someone thinking about something else. “You would really choose me? Every day? Every morning?”</p><p>You don’t even have to think. “Yes.”</p><p>“Why?” How is it that he’s able to look at you with a straight face and ask this? </p><p>“Well, why did you lie for me? We both know I could have turned Paul in a long time ago. If they knew that, I would have been in trouble.”</p><p>Some poor woman who probably wanted to buy some coffee seems to sense that you are having an intense conversation. She looks as though she might turn into the aisle, but then leaves. </p><p>“Because- well, <em> because</em>.” He falters, seems at a loss for words, for once. “It was for <em> you</em>. I weighed the risk and the likelihood of being caught, which was very, very close to nothing, and usually I wouldn’t even take <em> those </em> odds, but I knew it would help you. It did help you, right?” </p><p>“It did. A lot. And I’ve been meaning to thank you again for that. You didn’t have to do that, and I’m sorry I ever put you in that position.” </p><p>And this is when you learn the power that forgiveness holds, in the simplicity and obviousness of his “Of course”. It is soothing and coolly delivered, a salve over your guilt.</p><p>Your heart is hammering when you say to him, “I’d keep choosing you because I miss you when you’re gone. Isn’t that enough? Like you said, it’s not exactly something you can solve on paper. It’s us. Can you just let that be enough?”</p><p>And it’s like something dawns on him. It’s the expression that stretches across his face when you discuss literature and point out some symbolism he hadn’t seen on his first pass through, a rarity that always delights you. It’s a wonder to watch him understand something that you have been able to see all along.</p><p>“You’re the only person I know who calls me stupid on a regular basis.”</p><p>“Well, someone’s got to.” Really, a man like him without a god complex is a mystery.</p><p>“And I trust you.”</p><p>Those four words alone are enough to stop your breathing. “You do?”</p><p>“Yes. I trust you. I have for a long time, and I shouldn’t have stopped. Garcia got hold of your statements to the state department. You didn’t tell them the whole truth, but you told me even more and I guess that’s what really counts. I know now why you didn’t say anything; you were scared. And I think I was scared, too,” he says, as if this is going to be news to you. Derek Morgan has beat him to this insight, something the man is very pleased about when you bring it up at a much later date.</p><p>Now, the waves of your own personal ocean crash again and again, in your ears. “Everyone is scared of what we don’t understand.”</p><p>“Then… you’re afraid to lose me, too?” </p><p>It seems the two of you have found some common ground, so you keep it simple. “Yes.”</p><p>God, his smile. His smile when he realizes that he can have you. He’s got hold of you like no one you’ve ever known, and it’s like fear and joy combined. What is that? </p><p>He throws some old words back at you and his smile grows wider with every single one. “So... what are you going to do about it?”</p><p>You’re frozen for a second with something that should be embarrassment, but isn’t. “That memory of yours is a real pain in the ass sometimes.” </p><p>“You’re telling me.”</p><p>Spencer kisses you back slowly this time. You have curled into him so quickly, wrapping your arms around his neck and feeling so happy to be this close, but he is unhurried. It feels like an eternity between the moment you first initiate this kiss and the moment his hands are on your waist. You crumble at his touch, and his basket is on the floor of the grocery store. For the first time, you get the sense that he is relaxed. This kiss tastes like change. It’s like he knows there will be no more overthinking for the foreseeable future, at least not about this. </p><p>It is like you have all the time in the world to stand in this aisle of the grocery store and breathe him in along with the scent of coffee, to figure out the exact way the two of you reach for one another. But when you break away for air with some reluctance, you feel compelled to point out his groceries are on the ground. </p><p>“Your cat food is escaping.”</p><p>Not only is his ice cream smushed on the linoleum, but there are at least three cans of tuna rolling away as you watch. With his pupils blown and cheeks flushed, it’s like he hadn’t noticed it at all. Like he was using all his extensive brainpower for something else.</p><p>“It appears to be headed towards the espresso,” he says, laughing a little and sounding incredulous, and he seems torn between kissing you again or gathering his things. You stand to walk a few steps and pick it up, laughing to yourself, and he has to reload the rest of his items into the basket. </p><p>“Are you done shopping?” you ask breathily. “I am.” </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p>At the register, you see that your cart only has half the things you need, but you cannot bring yourself to care. When you exit the building, shopping bags in hand, Spencer Reid helps you carry them. You smile at him the whole way back to your apartment building, and he smiles too. </p><p>“You didn’t tell the state department everything,” he repeats. His hair is mussed. “Technically, that’s a crime.”</p><p>“Neither did you. Does that make us partners in crime?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I would just call you a bad influence.”</p><p>“You withheld news and altered the course of a federal investigation, even if it was just a little bit. I think that makes you, Spencer Reid, my accomplice.”</p><p>“I actually don’t hate the sound of that.” And his laugh is one you’ve never heard before, unrestrained, a little amazed. You can’t tell if it’s for what he’s done to help you or what you appear to have done to him, unravelled a little bit of the golden boy he is supposed to be. </p><p>In the elevator, you set down your bags to give your arms a rest. You turn, and there he is, standing close to you, a little more fearless in the way he cups your face in his hands. You thought it might take him a little while for him to not be so shy, but then again, he’s a quick learner. You’re not sure you will ever get used to how it feels to be this close to him. Right now, you cannot pick out a single thing about him, just the overwhelming sensation that’s settled over you. <em>Spencer.</em></p><p>A bell dings now that you’ve reached the third floor, and instead of leaving the elevator, he keeps on kissing you like he knows he will be able to do it again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks everyone who commented on the last chapter, I appreciate the support of you all so much, all of your comments were so kind, :,) I'm doing well &amp; each one made my week a little better. Let me know what you think of this one, this was one of the hardest chapters to write so far but I'm a sucker for drawn out conversations. Next chapter will prob be fluff but it might be a little late! We'll see </p><p>Also if any of you ask me anything on tumblr (link in my profile i think) i will definitely respond I'm kinda bored and looking to procrastinate my coursework xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Bread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The summer passes too quickly.<br/>content: kissing, brief explicit mention of sex (no smut tho sorry)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is, for the most part, chronological, but I wrote it with no particular order in mind, just going for a montage of sorts of their first summer together (which is also why I haven't been so precise about days of the week and dates like I tend to be). Thanks for the overwhelming response on the last post! I can't emphasize how much I appreciate your comments on here, I have felt like I'm falling out of sync with this fic lately and I'm coming up on the last of the chapters I had prepared in advance, but I don't want to lose the tone of it so I might take a breather for a week and organize the next story arc I want to plan. To make up, this one is probably the longest chapters I've posted so far. Hope you like it! Thanks again &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“Let me wake up next to you, have coffee in the morning and wander through the city with your hand in mine, and I'll be happy for the rest of my fucked up little life.”</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>― Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads &amp; Broken Bottles; In Search for The Great Perhaps</strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>June and July and August and oh it all just blurs together doesn’t it </b>
</p>
<p>“Where do you want the new table, boss?” </p>
<p>“Danny, I said you don’t have to call me that.”</p>
<p>“Okay- the delivery is here, though. Where would you like them to put the table, ma’am?”</p>
<p>This is somehow worse, but Daniel Narula refuses to call you by your first name due to the years separating the two of you and some need to acknowledge your authority. You tell the teen to direct the delivery to the corner.</p>
<p>Currently, the first floor of your bookstore is empty. You think of it as yours. It’s been cleared of all inventory, but fortunately for you, you’re in possession of a basement. The evidence guys have collected everything they saw pertinent, and the space was long ago finished so as to avoid any conditions that might damage important documents. You know, like stuff you might need to appear real. </p>
<p>“Uh, along the windows, please, guys. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Danny is eighteen and the ideal employee while school is out for the summer. Before you’d even put a HELP WANTED sign up in the window, he had shown up with a resume that told you he was an overqualified overachiever willing to work full time while school is out. You’ll still need to find a few other employees when you open, but he’s got initiative.</p>
<p>You had asked him, “Don’t you think you could find work at, no offense, someplace better?”</p>
<p>He had said, “With all due respect, ma’am, this is my last summer before college. And every summer in college I’m going to have an internship, paid or otherwise, so this is the summer to save some money.”</p>
<p>“Please don’t call me ma’am. How did you know we were hiring?”</p>
<p>“I follow the local news closely. Paul Winter’s arrest didn’t make any headlines, but I read the paper cover to cover. I thought his case was interesting. I live on the next block and walk past here almost every day, so I noticed when it wasn’t empty anymore. I assumed if you all are under new management, you might need some employees. I’m incredibly punctual, and I think helping revitalize a business such as this one might make me stand out on applications.”</p>
<p>
  <em> What am I, a magnet for prodigies?  </em>
</p>
<p>You wish, dearly, that the kid will stop someday soon to take a breath, but it seems like right now he’s ready to go full steam ahead. You hired him on the spot, partially because he reminds you a little of your favorite genius, and asked him to sort through some books with you. He’s one of the fastest readers you’ve seen, which is saying something.</p>
<p>So, yes, your life changes almost instantly, but it’s not because you’re now dating Spencer (although that has come with some slight modifications of your day-to-day, many of which result in Lyn reminding you that the walls separating your apartments are far from soundproof). It changes because you’re almost immediately buried under the work of running Folio as a real business and not a waystation for people looking to buy a fake passport. </p>
<p>And you’d hoped Paul would at least have been doing business with people in need, maybe undocumented people who just want to be able to travel and see their family and make it back into the states, but no, he was almost exclusively helping violent criminals to flee the country or take on a new identity. The older generation is really something else.</p>
<p>But you’re back at Folio in full force, albeit some sort of Folio 2.0 where Jeff has his own input and the money to back his ideas. Before, the place had been arranged haphazardly, with stacks of mismatched shelves narrowly lining the store. Your desk had sat in the corner where the old coffee pot was plugged in and had a high chair behind the register, normally couched in an old blanket; it was comforting and cozy and the perfect place to be on a rainy day, though you remember Spencer feeling differently. </p>
<p>There had been a couple of tables for customers to presumably enjoy their coffee or book, but had rarely been used by real customers, mostly just people looking to sit down. They are being replaced with newer, more modern looking things, although you’ve been arguing with Jeff about how modern you should push it. </p>
<p>Jeffrey Winter promised you free reign, and for the most part he’s been true to his word, but his tastes definitely differ from yours. </p>
<p>“Jeff, hey, have you got a minute?”</p>
<p>The man has a perpetual bluetooth earpiece, so it’s hard to tell if he’s busy or not, as is likely his intention. He sees you, walking towards him with your binder of ideas, and doesn’t wince as much as usual. A good sign. “A minute, and then I’ve got a work dinner.”</p>
<p>“Cool. So, I thought we might be able to put the money saved towards an espresso machine. If we’re expanding the register and keeping the coffeemaker, and you’re anticipating more people coming through the store, you might want to get a setup so you can make, like, three basic espresso drinks. I think it would really take off. I wrote up a sheet of the costs and how quickly it would pay for itself. We’ve already got the minifridge back there for storing any cream, and while we would spend a little more not buying things in bulk, it wouldn’t be any more than you would have spent on the chairs you wanted-”</p>
<p>“Like I said, we aren’t licensed to serve food and drink, and it’s not something that brought in any money as far as I can tell. There’s no reason to go through all the hassle. I don’t think we need you on any more espresso, anyways.” He says this kindly, but you deflate. </p>
<p>Apparently, underneath all of the mismatched furniture and that very last layer of grime (removed by your own persistence and a rented floor cleaner) had been a shining hardwood floor. You want to try and match it, and retain some of the old bones that this place was built on, but Jeff wants to eliminate all memories of the place. You suppose it makes sense; this place must be filled with a strange combination of memories from both parents. But you think Jeffrey might wake up one day with the desire to see something that remains of the place his mother apparently loved so much. You know you want to keep some semblance of what it once was: a cluttered, unkempt place with a lot to be found between the pages. And people, for whatever reason, bought the coffee.</p>
<p>At least he’s letting you keep the mismatched chairs. Jeffrey had them appraised and, it turns out, in a fun twist of events that shocked no one, none of them are actually vintage; they are sub-par forgeries. They’re worth very little money but make the place look old and unrefined, which you like. </p>
<p>The table Jeffrey has picked out is some moderately priced, sleek looking metal table (<em> To go with his stupid fucking Edison bulbs </em>, you had vented to Spencer, who nodded affectionately), and the idea is that people will all sit at it, together, if they want to sit in the store. For your part, you’ve made sure that the nooks and crannies of the store have cushions for the people who will want to be alone. </p>
<p>The table is placed along one of the walls, near the windows so that people might look out, or in, or, hopefully, read their books in some natural light. You will have to reduce the inventory kept up here, since Jeffrey wants the shelves more spaced out so more people can walk through the store; this doesn’t seem like an unreasonable request. He also wants to order new books, which sits strangely with you. But it’s his place.</p>
<p>Spencer enters just as Jeff is leaving, and the two of them do their strange dance in which they pretend to like each other. “Oh. Doctor Reid. Good afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Afternoon, Winter. Another business dinner?”</p>
<p>“I’m meeting up with a couple clients while I’m in the area.”</p>
<p>“D.C. politicians are lucky to have you,” Spencer says, and if you didn’t know him as well as you do, you’d say there was no sarcasm to it. But there is, and it’s a rarity. You can’t tell if Jeffrey picks up on it.</p>
<p>“Not as lucky as the federal government is to have someone like you,” Jeffrey says, beaming, his straight white teeth all perfectly in order and reminding you a little of a shark. “Honestly, I’m surprised your talents haven’t led you into another arena. You would do very well in the private sector.”</p>
<p>“That isn’t the compliment you think it is,” Spencer says icily, but Jeff has already left through the newly painted doors. He seems irritated that your boss has taken a phone call instead of formally ending the conversation.</p>
<p>“Didn’t get the last word, did you?” You exaggerate his pout on your own features and put your hands on your hips. Then you frown. “You promised you would try to get along with him. He’s my<em> boss. </em>”</p>
<p>“Nothing but kind words between the two of us. Besides, your last boss is behind bars now, so who’s to say that this one will remain with us in the free world for very long.” </p>
<p>“Spencer Reid, is that a threat?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t answer, just kisses you on the cheek. His stubble scratches against your skin, not unpleasantly, and it reminds you he just got in from a case last night.</p>
<p>“Sometimes I think he’s got a little bit of a point,” you say hesitantly. Spencer says nothing, just cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows. “Why did you go into law enforcement? As a field agent, no less. Garcia does her thing remotely. You’re so... smart. You could do anything, so why this?” This has been something you’ve always wondered, but he loves his job so dearly that it feels almost wrong to ask. But you’ve been asking, lately.</p>
<p>You get the usual response to this line of questioning, and it’s, “I want to help people.” </p>
<p>You nod but it’s combined with a shrug, one dissatisfied motion. “I know. I’ll be out in just a sec, let me close up.” </p>
<p>He’s quiet while you bustle around and turn everything off and send Danny home. Jeffrey hadn’t told you he had plans tonight, and you hadn’t expected to be the one closing. You should just start planning around it. Since you’re not open yet, there isn’t as much to do, although there’s a new alarm system. You punch in the code and leave, and find Danny and Spencer on the sidewalk talking about college math. It’s involved, and you don’t understand many of the words or Greek mathematicians that pass between them, but that’s fine. You think Danny prefers it that way.</p>
<p>On the subway, Spencer sits next to you. His shoulder is pressed against your exposed arm, and though he’s got on a button-up shirt, it’s rolled up past his elbows. It’s hot out, and you told him last week, offhandedly, that you like his arms. These are the things you get to say now, and he listens. He remembers it all.</p>
<p>You’re mentally running through what you need to do tomorrow when he says, “I’m not exactly the poster boy for human connection.”</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“You asked me why I do this job.” It’s not that you want him to quit; he so clearly loves his work and the people there. But you don’t know why he started in the first place, and you want to understand him as best you can. You want to know why he makes the choices he does.</p>
<p>“Right. Human connection?”</p>
<p>“I do this job because I want to help people, and this way I get to do it up close. When we save a person, it’s visceral, immediate; I get to see that I helped them. And when I’m talking to an unsub, I know what I’m saying and how he’s receiving it because we’ve turned him into a kind of formula. The entire time we put together a profile, I get to know exactly what makes him tick, and by the time we meet, I know just what to say. You know I don’t get that often.”</p>
<p>His hair is growing out, and he moves it out of his eyes. You tell him, “Okay, but you don’t just do it for that, for understanding people, right? You could have gone into psychiatry, or- no, no you couldn’t have. I just don’t see you listening to someone talk about their feelings for that long.”</p>
<p>“Hey, I can listen to feelings,” he says, bristling and a little pouty. You kiss him on the cheek, settle into him a little bit more. The lights of the train flicker.</p>
<p>“No, of course, but listening and then responding in the way a psychiatrist would… I think you’d get bored. You listen to me because you like me. I’m just amazed that you didn’t go into research or teaching. Seriously, research, <em> you- </em> there would have to be an entirely new journal just for your articles every month so that they wouldn’t fill up all the other ones.”</p>
<p>He smiles at that, a little shyly. “I publish under a pseudonym, actually.”</p>
<p>You know he attends classes when it fits into his schedule, and he lectures when asked to, so you should have expected this. “Why not your name?”</p>
<p>“I’ll answer that another time.”</p>
<p>You wiggle your eyebrows, the question of why he is in law enforcement forgotten for now. You lower your voice. “Oooh, <em> Doctor, </em> are we keeping secrets?”</p>
<p>He reddens at the intonation you use for his honorific, and doesn’t correct you. <em> Interesting, </em>you think, and file this away for... later use. </p>
<p>In the meantime, you rest your head on his shoulder and the train rattles. It is nice to just sit with him and go places and ask questions about one another.</p>
<hr/>
<p>You are happy that you finally feel comfortable asking Spencer many of the things that have been waiting, in the very back of your mind, for the dust to be blown off of them. It feels like every day together, you find out something new about him. It has taken quite some time for it to sink in that there is no longer a line you might cross by asking certain questions, or grabbing his hand excitedly on a walk, or kissing him when the urge strikes you. The urge strikes you often. </p>
<p>Of course, there are still lines. These lines are, mostly, good things. They keep life interesting. The subject of whether people are truly knowable, even to themselves, is too large to broach this summer, but you do know that he doesn't talk much about his mother or his childhood. You don’t pry. </p>
<p>Your relationship is in its early stages, a doe walking on shaking legs. This is especially clear one evening when he takes it upon himself to ask you a question you thought had already been answered. “Um, so, I was wondering.”</p>
<p>Currently, you’re in the process of looking into his fridge and trying to figure out if you can get away with using oat milk instead of heavy cream to make the tomato soup creamier. Probably not, and it would be too sweet besides, but you’re all out of heavy cream and have been trying to reduce how much dairy he eats, anyways. You also know full well that Spencer is overthinking about something if he’s coming to you with a question you might have the answer to.</p>
<p>“...Oh, you know what, I think I have some cashew cream downstairs. That would work. Wondering what?” Actually, it might have gone bad by now. You don’t have much reason to use your fridge anymore, not when you’re here even more than before.</p>
<p>“Well, at the office today, you know, Derek was asking me… because, well, like you said, he’s always been invested in us a little bit. Literally, I suppose. And then Penelope wanted to know, and she sort of gathered everyone else into her office… And...”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Spence? Spit it out.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re my girlfriend, right? I told them all that you are. It felt like the quickest way to get out of there. They were asking and I couldn’t put it off. I know it isn’t something we’ve formally discussed, but I think that’s what we are. Boyfriend and girlfriend.” His nose wrinkles as if with distaste. </p>
<p>At times like this, he is still so shy with you, like he’s met you all over again. Because of this renewed apprehension, sometimes, when you laugh, you know he will not take it well. So you restrain yourself and smile widely at him instead, setting down the oat milk and reaching up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear and allowing your hand to rest on that delicate curve where his neck meets his shoulder. These are things you get to do now, without thinking. </p>
<p>“Yes, Spencer, I’m your girlfriend. Or did you think I was seeing other people? Do I seem like I have that much time on my hands?”</p>
<p>“Well, I said it and it felt strange.”</p>
<p>“Strange how?”</p>
<p>“It felt sort of silly. Juvenile.”</p>
<p>“Everyone feels that way at first. I promise, you’ll get used to it.”</p>
<p>He responds, “I feel like you’re more than that to me. You’re...” He hesitates. He knows better than to say <em> everything</em>. The two of you have agreed to work up to that. “A lot more than that.”</p>
<p><em> Everyone feels like that at first </em> , you almost say, but don’t. You think, now that you’ve got him, that it might be too easy to break Spencer. He feels fragile, sometimes, and while that in itself doesn’t scare you, the thought that <em> you </em> might be the one to ruin this does. </p>
<p>So while you agree that <em> dating </em> and <em> boyfriend </em> feel like trivial terms when you can hear the tenderness with which he speaks your name, they also carry something of substance. They form some solid ground to stand on. </p>
<p>So, in a conspiratorial voice, you say, “Well, I referred to you as my boyfriend when I was talking to Sarah the other day, so I think if we agree to keep it up, we can keep fooling everybody into thinking that’s all we are.”</p>
<p>He jokingly says, “Shut up.” It’s a phrase he’s been testing out but it doesn’t fall from his lips easily; then he kisses you fiercely, effectively cancelling out any irritation he may have tried to convey. The kiss melts into something hopeful and warm.</p>
<p>That night, after the soup turned out better than you’d hoped for (the cashew cream had not gone bad yet, and made the whole thing taste rich and filling), he says, while brushing his teeth, “Rossi invited us to a dinner he’s having soon.”</p>
<p>You mull it over. You’re sitting up on the couch, trying to read one of Spencer’s books which profiles some of the more famous serial killers. It’s slow going; some of the details make your stomach turn. You think he mostly gave it to you so that you would associate the name Jeffrey with Dahmer instead of Winter, but his notes in the margins terrify you. “Is Will coming, too? And Kevin?”</p>
<p>You can hear the uncertainty in his voice. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know if I want to be the only person there who isn’t a member of the team.”</p>
<p>“Well, he says he wants to meet you. He’s the only member of the team who hasn’t.”</p>
<p>“True, but…” The thought of sitting down to dinner with the BAU, on their own turf, feels daunting. “When is it? I’ll have to check my schedule.” </p>
<p>Spencer walks over to the couch, gives you a minty kiss and then makes one of his new, imploring expressions. It works just about every time. “Saturday. Let me know. You don’t have to go, but… it would mean a lot.”</p>
<p>And how can you say no to those eyes?</p>
<hr/>
<p>This is one way things have changed. Others are a little less expected. You are sitting up on his couch and writing pretty late one night. Typing away at your new novel, you have lost track of time, and Spencer yawns from his place on the couch. Normally you would notice, but right now you are trying to figure out if you contradict an earlier scene by adding a particular detail. </p>
<p>He always goes to bed a little earlier than you, you know this. This time, instead of waiting for you to head home for the night, or going to bed and waiting for you to join, he uses your legs as a kind of pillow and falls asleep before you really notice he’s done so. </p>
<p>There was a time that every brush of his skin against yours would have alerted your nervous system to react with alarm, but this serenity is just as good. Better, because there is now an ease that comes with being with him; he is a part of you now. You liked the blushing and brushing of hands, even reveled in the awkwardness a little, but this new closeness comes with perks. An hour later, without getting up, you place your laptop on his coffee table and scoot down, carefully, so as not to wake him. You curl up against his chest. His heart beats steadily. Every beat feels like a promise.</p>
<p>You could wake him and go to bed, but this feels like the right way to spend the night. Nothing could bring you to break this man’s peace, not now that you know he sleeps so restlessly. When you stay in his bed, increasingly often, he keeps some point of contact. He leaves a hand on your waist, or moves his legs so as to keep your ice-block feet warm, and this reminder of you seems to help him rest easy. He still has nightmares, but they don’t seem as painfully frequent.</p>
<p>In the morning, when you wake up, you just look at him for a while and feel how his slow breaths are synced up to yours. It is a weekend, and he doesn’t yet have a call asking him to hop on a plane and go solve a murder. Though it shouldn’t be this comfortable for two people to be crushed together on the couch like this, it is. At least, it’s comfortable until Erwin yowls at the both of you as if you’ve never fed him before in his life. </p>
<p>Spencer wakes and he is unguarded, fresh to the day. He has turned over in his sleep and you find yourself latched onto him from behind, the big spoon despite the fact that he’s taller. The glow of summer has made its way into his apartment, touching on the bookshelves and warming his neck as your lips find their way there. His voice is low when he says, “Good morning.” And then your name falls from his lips as slowly as honey from a spoon, like it wants to stay there, like he wants to keep on tasting it.</p>
<p>When he turns to face you, he doesn’t seem to understand why your face is fixed in a smile.</p>
<p>His eyes land on you, and you realize<em> I am the first person he’s seeing today. It is only us, right now. </em>That feels precious. </p>
<p>Later that day Spencer gets a call that does, in fact, take him hundreds of miles away to solve some grisly murders, and you get to kiss him goodbye before you get on a train to go check on Folio. Every time you kiss him goodbye, it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. You are a little more scared to see him go than you were before, and that turns your goodbyes into a slice of heartbreak. It feels like he is more properly yours now, and the loss would hurt that much more. You should probably stop reading that book he gave you. “I’ll see you when I see you” has turned into “I’ll miss you”. At least now, in his go-bag, you know there is a bottle of conditioner. </p>
<p>You spend the summer happy, for the most part. You’re kept very busy with work and writing and dating Spencer and taking care of Erwin and Lyn’s insatiable appetite to spend as much time partying as is humanly possible before fall begins. You can deal with life, and the little details of it that try to keep us unhappy, but you think you might not be able to handle this new fear. It strikes you, icy and halting, whenever Spencer picks up his phone at an odd hour. You try and shove that feeling down, but sometimes you are more afraid for Spencer than you had previously allowed yourself to be. It doesn’t feel healthy.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Whenever you wake up next to him at night and reach for the water on the nightstand, Spencer’s legs are wrapped up in yours. Points of contact. To fall back asleep, you always press your head against his chest, and those arms reflexively hold onto you. You listen to him, breathe him in, remind yourself he is stronger than you sometimes give him credit for.</p>
<p>You almost forgot what an enigma it is to be quiet with a person, to know the feel of their skin against yours. Time must be frozen and you are the only person in the world who is awake, if he is so clearly sleeping. You see him, faintly blue in the dim glow of the fishtank and lights of this city. You almost forgot what it is to not only hear, but to <em> listen </em> to someone else’s heart beating. It goes, <em> I am alive I am alive I am alive right now. </em> It promises, <em> I will be alive with you in the morning. </em> But when he leaves, eventually, like he always must? You cannot hear it when he is gone. There is no proof of him, then.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Time bleeds beautifully and there is routine even with the unpredictable phone calls and him jetting away. You find out that Spencer chooses the best tomatoes at the farmer’s market, and strikes up long, intensely intellectual conversations about bees with the older woman who runs the honey stand. Whenever you go to the summer farmer’s market, even if he is away on a case, you pick up some honeycomb for his sweet tooth. </p>
<p>You find out that he is a wonderful museum guide for the same reason he is an awful person to watch Jeopardy with; he knows too damn much. But you laugh, a lot, when he goes silent for the pop culture or sports sections. And museums you thought you had worn out are new again, full of more information. Questions delight this man. </p>
<p>Arguments, with him, are enjoyable. Not real, terrible arguments like the small ones that threaten to emerge from cancelled plans. But sometimes you close a book, and with the whole thing fresh in your mind, opinions still only half-formed, you choose a claim about it and defend it to death. Sometimes it’s one you believe, and other times it’s something absurd. It takes him a long time to notice your arguments are not always things you believe. </p>
<p>You know that he doesn’t swear much, but it dawns on you that he has never called you unladylike for your sharp tongue during these debates. You point it out once, and he responds sincerely, too fast, as though he’s already given this some thought. “Any words from your lips-” He starts his sentence like that, then stops. You have to prompt  him to finish speaking, a shit-eating grin on your face, and he stammers out, “Any words from your lips are welcome ones.” </p>
<p>“Are you quoting something?” you ask him, and he squeaks out a “no”. You make fun of him for that, but only exactly enough. You think you have pretty much sniffed out his personal boundaries, and you know exactly how to tiptoe up to them and then kiss him as an apology. He always accepts.</p>
<hr/>
<p>You go to Rossi’s dinner party. For some reason, you had mentally turned the rich novelist who built the BAU into some terrifying figure in your head. Instead, an Italian guy who looks like that grandfather who slips you money on your birthday gives you a hearty pat on the back and immediately asks how you managed to turn their genius into a regular man. You raise your eyebrow at this.</p>
<p>Derek is right on his heels, explaining, “See, he means that Reid has been doing human things lately. Like smiling at his phone and not sleeping at work.”</p>
<p>“What did you do to him, kid?” Rossi asks again.</p>
<p>You look at Spencer, who does not look uncomfortable in the least, maybe even puffing up a little bit with pride at the fact that he’s got a date for tonight. It’s an unusual look for him. You think, <em> He’s been human all along</em>. “No clue.”</p>
<p>You’re relieved to see that Will is here tonight, and you aren’t the only person who isn’t a member of the team. But he’s still known them for years, and they share something in law enforcement. Penelope is the last to arrive, and she makes you feel at home with her familiar hug. </p>
<p>At dinner, Rossi declares, “Tonight I’ve made my delicious eggplant parmigiana. I get the most authentic <em> mozzarella </em> you can find in D.C.” The man pronounces the words with obvious pride, and by the end of the night, every plate has been cleared. His outdoor dining area is nice, and so is the company and his wine. </p>
<p>You get to watch them all together, even Hotch cracking a smile, and it feels a little odd at first. But they’re also experts in putting people at ease. The dinner party has all the natural pauses that occur when someone unfamiliar sits in on a tightly knit group, but it is pleasant, and Penelope and the girls intentionally lasso you into the conversation from time to time. </p>
<p>And, over the course of the night, you observe how they talk to Spencer. Obviously they all love him, but he is the baby of the group. </p>
<p>You know full well that you’ve got a firmer grasp on social cues than Spencer does. You don’t have to read his friends the way he reads a book, remembering things and then exacting meaning. This makes it easy to strike up a conversation with Rossi about the location of his favorite cheese vendor, or ask Hotch how Jack is doing with his summer reading. They are all trying to like you, or they already do. All of them seem so happy at Reid having a girlfriend in the first place that you’re pretty sure you could have shown up in pajamas carrying the cat and no one would have said anything.</p>
<p>Spencer could read a story for the first time and recite it back to you, but he might have missed some of the symbols or themes, probably couldn’t pick every single nugget of meaning without reading criticism or essays on said story. He is not intuitive about certain things. You like that about the two of you, how you fill in the gaps of one another’s knowledge sometimes and balance each other out. So sometimes he goes on for too long, and his team members choose to talk over him or roll their eyes. You don’t say anything, but… It’s not a professional context, so why not let him keep talking? There are no murderers that will kill again if you let him finish talking about the agricultural history of the eggplant. He gets about as far as, “It still grows wild in India,” before you spot the first eye roll.</p>
<p>By Rossi’s third dinner party, a month later, you have perfected a gentle touch on his knee, tracing where you know his bullet wound is, and he tapers off his lecture naturally. On the train ride back, or in the taxi, or on the very rare occasion that he drives, you ask him to finish his discussion of whatever he had been prevented from saying. He beams, and there it is. Balance. </p>
<hr/>
<p>One hot day in the middle of August, you are at the kitchen island in Spencer’s apartment drafting yet another email to Jeffrey about how he should let you buy a <em> really </em> nice espresso machine for the store’s opening. Business is going way better than anticipated, and you have mapped out every step of the process to getting your food and drink license, and are trying to assure him he won’t need to lift a finger. Not that he really has been, apart from buying his hipster decor.</p>
<p>The thought descends upon you, seeing Spencer standing in his kitchen, kneading dough, that you are able to walk behind him and loop your hands around his waist. This is not the kind of revolutionary, life-saving thought that he seems to have every couple of days, but you think it’s pretty neat. So you pad into the kitchen and put your arms around him. </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Hugging you,” you say simply. There is a lot of glee in your tone and you don’t have to cut it back. A couple months ago, you would have had to.</p>
<p>“Alright.”</p>
<p>“What are you doing, turning on the oven on a day like this?”</p>
<p>“Baking,” he replies.</p>
<p>“Alright.”</p>
<p>Watching Spencer knead dough, his knuckles making indents in what he’s carefully made, seeing him inspect every inch of it with a slow deliberation, is certainly something. Knowing that you get to kiss his flour-dusted nose after he’s done is quite another. It transforms the first from something that would have tortured you a short time ago into something that delights you now, makes desire that you can actually act on curl up in your stomach.</p>
<p>Your hands are around his hips so that you’re hugging him to you, and your cheek is resting against his back. This kitchen smells like flour and raw dough and the gas of the oven as it preheats, and the cool tile is refreshing in the summer heat. He is warm. You run cold, and he is always warm, with you. And the thing is, you get to exist in this moment for as long as you want, or at least until he nudges you and says that he needs to move so he can go get a bowl.</p>
<p>“This heat is going to mess with the rise. Ideally I’d set it in the fridge, but I don’t have twelve hours to spare,” he says. As he’s told you many times, baking is a science. You’re sure his bread will turn out wonderfully.</p>
<p>“It’s always delicious,” you say. You’re still working on telling him, in little ways here and there, who he is to you and how much you appreciate him in your life. It’s hard, sometimes, to do out loud, so you start by tip-toeing up to kiss his nose. He moves his head up, so that your lips are on his now, and you eagerly move in for a kiss that lasts quite a bit longer. It is hungry, and reflects the August heat, and it leaves you both wanting more.</p>
<p>“I can feel you smiling,” he breathes, eyes closed, nose still pressed against yours. His lips are barely there anymore, but you feel them move.</p>
<p>“Well, I was just thinking that we have a little time to kill while we wait on your bread.”</p>
<p>His eyes open. “I was planning on putting together a cheese plate so that when it comes out of the oven we- <em> oh</em>. Oh. It can wait.”</p>
<p>Spencer Reid fucks much in the same way he bakes, which is to say he is a patient man who is very, <em> very </em> successful in whatever he sets out to do. And he is in possession of capable, skillful hands. You already knew he was easy to teach, has no doubt got every inch of you memorized, filing away small things like the register of your voice as a reaction to whatever he’s doing at the time. And, despite what his team might think at times, he is a good listener.</p>
<p>Later, when he puts the bread in the oven, pretending to grumble about how it might be a little over-proved, you wear his t-shirt and look over the jars in his pantry. You ask him what flavor of jam is his favorite. </p>
<p>“Strawberry,” he says, after a few seconds of thought. And then he asks you yours, and you answer, and then he is not only telling you about the origin of jam (it feels like everything goes back to the ancient Greeks, doesn’t it?) but about the history of stamping bread so as to be able to prove authenticity. He talks without interruption for the entirety of the time that the bread bakes, and only notices when the oven timer goes off.</p>
<p>The bread is delicious; he’s factored into account the humid weather and how that would affect the rise. He’s got some formula that all the baking forums are raving about. He eats it with strawberry jam. For you, while it’s still steaming, butter suffices.</p>
<p> “I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to speak that long on one subject before,” he muses. “Not outside of an academic setting, at least.”</p>
<p>“It was interesting,” is all you say. Because it was. Seeing him enthusiastic, wearing that apron and petting Erwin while he goes on about bread as the room fills with the smell of it- you don’t find that dull.</p>
<p>“Sorry if it bored you,” he says.</p>
<p>Sometimes, you get self-conscious of the fact that you are not a genius. You do not have an IQ of 187. Sometimes you worry that he will get bored with you. But at times like this, you realize he just needed to meet someone who wants to know just as much as he does, and who likes the sound of his voice. </p>
<p>“It didn’t. You never bore me.”</p>
<p>You find, when you kiss him as if it will prove your point, that his mouth is just the right kind of sweet. The summer passes in this way, with bold questions and new discoveries and a lot of warm food and sweet kisses. The summer passes too quickly. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Birthday Cake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You celebrate a couple of birthdays. content: no warning I think? super brief mention of alcohol but that's to be expected at this point so I might stop tagging it in here</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>“We're all fools," said Clemens, "all the time. It's just we're a different kind each day. We think, I'm not a fool today. I've learned my lesson. I was a fool yesterday but not this morning. Then tomorrow we find out that, yes, we were a fool today too. I think the only way we can grow and get on in this world is to accept the fact we're not perfect and live accordingly.”</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>― </b> <b>Ray Bradbury, </b> <b> <em>The Illustrated Man</em> </b></p>
  <p>
    <b>Early September</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Spencer Reid so obviously does not belong at a punk show. Even if you set aside the heaving crowds that he so clearly loathes and the way he is dressed like an adjunct professor, it’s not the place for him.</p><p>For one thing, it’s almost intentionally filthy inside the venue. And you’re pretty sure he’s fixating on the sticky floors like they exist just to punish him and his Converse sneakers. And the <em> noise</em>. The noise must be overwhelming.</p><p>Because of his discomfort, it is easy for you to see the exact moment he picks you out of the crowd, walking towards him with the t-shirts. He doesn’t bother trying to say anything over the music, especially once you extend your hand and give him a pair of earbuds. </p><p>He plucks them from your outstretched palm and puts them in, relief clear on his face. He takes hold of your hand and squeezes it, only once. You’ve got an overpriced beer, and Spencer has an overpriced bottle of water.</p><p>You’ve got on the large band shirt over your clothes, and you bought one for Lyn and one for Spencer. He puts on the wrong one, and it clings too tightly, but you don’t correct him. It is adorable to see him bobbing to the rhythm with the purple collar of his button-up sticking out of a black shirt with filthy lyrics on it.</p><p>The set finishes in a cacophony that you enjoy and he seems to tolerate. While the people pressed around you are screaming for an encore, Spencer squeezes your hand twice. You easily weave a path through the crowd and pull him with you. The September air is a welcome reprieve from the cloud of smoke in the venue.</p><p>You nudge him lightly with your arm. “A shame you didn’t end up in the mosh pit like Lyn wanted. I think it would have been cute.”</p><p>He removes the earplugs. “What’s that?”</p><p>You shake your head, ears ringing, pleasantly tipsy and enjoying the time with him. “Don’t worry about it. What did you think?”</p><p>“Definitely a new experience. I must really like you.” He shakes his hair, a little damp with sweat. It still has not fully recovered from what you’ve heard affectionately referred to as his “boyband cut” by Derek. He makes for a cute picture, and you hold up your camera phone for a photo. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you.</p><p>The flash goes off, and there he is, a slightly sweaty Spencer in a women’s-fit t-shirt, a little blurry but smiling wryly into the camera. As you examine it with him, you hear Spencer say, “I wouldn’t normally have let you take that.”</p><p>“Let me? Spence, you couldn’t have stopped me if you tried.”</p><p>He hums noncommittally, still looking at the picture, pink lips curving easily. “We could take another one, with you in it.  To remember your birthday.” </p><p>You blink a little too much from the surprise of his words. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I didn’t know that you knew that was today. How do you know?” You thought that you successfully sidestepped your birthday this year. </p><p>“You didn’t say anything about it coming up, but I remembered the date. From your IDs when we checked you into the hospital, remember?”</p><p>Right. “How could I forget?” </p><p>His smile indicates to you that both of you are thinking about something to say regarding his famous memory. Neither of you do. “Well, since you didn’t say anything, I figured you didn’t want it to be a big deal. But Lyn got sick, and I knew you were going to come to this with her… I thought it might be nice.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” </p><p>He shrugs, abashed. “Honestly, I was worried I might get called in to work. I don’t like making a commitment and having to fall through on it. And up until we got in the door, it felt like I might have to go.” </p><p>This makes your recollection of this morning a little sweeter, as things tend to be when you look back at them under the fuzzy lens of hindsight; he made your morning coffee with more ceremony today, and gave you a kiss on the cheek as he presented it to you. </p><p>You are touched by the way he chooses to care for you, with an attention to detail you should have expected. Everything he does feels purposeful. There is a pad of paper on his fridge now, and the two of you scrawl groceries onto it until there is a list. Something about that… it feels like you might be building something. </p><p>You say, “I get it. I feel the same way sometimes. It’s… harder, definitely, to let you go when I’m not expecting it.” The days pass a little slower when he’s gone, and you are getting perhaps too used to coming home to him. The weekend phone calls, or worse, calls during dinner, are hard to reckon with. But he is doing good work, you remind yourself.</p><p>“Plus, you never told me about it, so I thought you might want to pretend it wasn’t happening. Some people don’t like birthdays. I just wanted to be with you.”</p><p>It isn’t that, exactly. It’s too hard not to compare yourself with who you were at the end of being twenty-three, already world-weary. And it’s good that you are doing better now, that you have managed to fall in love with life again, but you feel bad for her. She didn’t laugh as much as you do, didn’t have the time or energy to write because she felt like it. She did not have a small burn scar at the base of her left thumb. She was months away from knowing Carolyn Valdes. You feel bad for the version of yourself who turned twenty four last year and went out to a bar with friends and still felt alone. As much as you might think, <em> That isn’t me anymore, </em> we carry our past selves with us. She’s in there, right now, surrounded by people and lonely still. </p><p>You say, “Well, it’s happening, and we can celebrate. I would like that.”</p><p>The two of you head to the nearest metro stop, and he squeezes your hand on the walk there, not as some kind of signal, but out of excitement. “Any traditions to follow through on?” he asks.</p><p>“Not really. I try to have a normal day and not get too existential. What about you?” </p><p>He chuckles, lifts his eyebrows. His thumb is absently tracing your scar, as it often tends to.“What about me?”</p><p>“Do you have any birthday traditions?” His is a little over a month away, and you’re stumped about a gift.</p><p>“Yeah. I’m sure you’ll find out.” He doesn’t expand on this point. Often, when he stops talking, you are even more curious about what he might have to say.</p><p>You poke at him and annoy him about this for the rest of the evening, but he doesn’t tell you. He doesn’t realize he’s wearing the wrong shirt until you’re sitting next to him on the train, and then he turns about as deep pink as a person can get before they look red. </p><hr/><p>“Since we’re not ignoring your birthday, can I give you my gift?” he asks when the two of you walk into his apartment.</p><p>“You really didn’t need to get me anything,”</p><p>He grins. “Of course I did.”</p><p>It sounds too cheesy to say out loud to him, but waking up next to Spencer Reid is its own kind of gift. Every day that there isn’t one of those damned notes on your pillow, you’re consciously grateful. </p><p>The notes he writes when he leaves keep getting longer, bordering on letters now, riddled with random facts and smudged ink. You have them tucked into a shoebox in your closet down at your apartment, though more and more of your clothes are migrating upstairs. The notes are no substitute for a living, breathing Spencer, but they’re welcome. They mean that he spends a few minutes putting off the fact that he’s got to go.</p><p>He goes to his room, and you sit on the couch and pet Erwin. He’s being lazy today, has barely complained even when you were late with his breakfast. You scratch behind his ears, and his eyes close. He purrs, soft and rumbling under your hand, and his nose twitches. He’s grown without becoming overweight, due to how strict Spencer is about his diet. You think Spencer accounts for you sneaking treats to Erwin in those logbooks he keeps. </p><p>The cat is unusually quiet today, as if he’s respecting its significance. Or he’s just getting lazy. Spencer comes back with a simple manila folder, like so many of the ones he keeps, closed, on his desk. </p><p>“Is this… one of your cases?” you ask, confused. “Because you know I don’t really like seeing-”</p><p>“No, no. I wouldn’t- I know the imagery of my work is upsetting. Trust me, this isn’t that.”</p><p>You immediately realize what you’re looking at once you trust him and flip the cover open. They’re the same documents that you’ve been staring at in the months since Folio has been open, trying again and again to get Jeff’s approval. There’s a page with proof of payment. And there’s your boss’ signature, on the dotted line.<em> Finally. </em></p><p>“You got me the food and drink license for the store?” Your voice must reflect exaggerated shock, bordering on disapproval, and his face drops. </p><p>“Garcia and Morgan were right, you don’t get a girl something to do with her job, I’m such an idiot-”</p><p>Your hand cups his face, and you run your thumb along his jaw. “I love it. Thank you, Spence. This is perfect.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Really,” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his. His breathing always gets a little shuddery when you do this, as if he’ll never get used to your faces so close while the gap between your lips feels immeasurable. “It’s practical and the only thing I wanted that I didn’t already have. <em> Thank you</em>.”</p><p>And you kiss him as if that can do the talking for you, hot and appreciative.</p><p>“You did a lot of the legwork,” he admits. “All I had to do was draw up the paperwork and pay the initial licensing fee. I think Jeffrey was going to break any day now, the way you were bothering him. Didn’t take too much convincing on my part.” </p><p>You kiss him again. The papers fall to the floor. Erwin seems miffed that you’ve taken over his couch and pads away, sulking. </p><p>Before going to bed that night, you still cry, just a few tears in the shower as steam fogs up the mirror. It wouldn’t feel like a birthday if you don’t cry. You’re not sure why you do, because you’ve had a wonderful day and you have people who love you and your life is going well. </p><p>Maybe you cry for that past you, at the age of twenty four, who did not know what was to come. Maybe you cry for the couple dozen of you that you carry inside, a bawling baby who doesn’t exist anymore and someone who learned to read and decided to do that, forever. Maybe this is how we choose to acknowledge the passing of time, by shedding a tear. You are halfway to thirty, and that doesn’t make you sad, but the curiosity for who you will be in five years burns at you from the inside out. You aren’t the most patient person. </p><p>When you get out, you put your finger to the mirror, writing on the glass. They are three words, invisible until it fogs up again. They are inevitable, at this point. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>October 28</strong>
</p><p>Spencer’s birthday hat makes an appearance a month later, and you are glad he didn’t tell you- it’s wonderful to see it for the first time combined with the abashed smile on his face and many of the people who love him singing and showering him with affection. He probably didn’t tell you because he knew  you would tease him, which you do. Gently. Lovingly. </p><p>“How’d you manage to get Reid to host something?” Emily Prentiss asks you as you remove a homemade pizza from the oven. Derek descends instantly, Rossi not far behind. You’ve purchased mozzarella from the guy he recommended. It’s fantastic, and well worth your shady interaction with a man who you’re pretty sure was (or still is?) in the Mafia. </p><p>“He wanted to bake his own cake,” you say.</p><p>You look across the room to where your boyfriend stands in his wonderfully ridiculous hat, gesticulating wildly while JJ nods, listening. She’s dressed more formally than the rest of them (even Hotch is wearing a pullover sweater that makes him look more like a Patagonia ad than someone who stares at people menacingly for a living) because she could only make it today for about an hour. You know Spencer misses her, they all do, so you reached out a week ago and planned this gathering around her schedule. It wasn’t easy.</p><p>You are being a little gentler with Spencer today, trying a little harder with this birthday party than you otherwise might have, because, among other things, his family has been splintered. The team lost the woman who kept things in order; Spencer explained JJ’s job to you a while ago, and it sounded harder than his, if you’re being honest. The toll seems greater. To come close to this sorrow and then look at the people most affected by it seems a little crippling to a person’s soul. To know she fought to keep doing that- it changes your perception of a person. </p><p>Emily looks at the perfectly shaped but atrociously decorated green circle on the table. From here, you think you can see a paw print in it, which is almost a relief. Erwin hasn’t been up to enough mischief lately. </p><p>“I believe Reid made <em> that</em>. I don’t know if I’m willing to eat it.”</p><p>“It’ll taste good, I promise. Baking is a science.”</p><p>“You haven’t steered me wrong yet,” Emily says, but she eyes the cake dubiously. The color is a little… questionable.</p><p>When the brass made JJ go, you remember exactly how you felt when Spencer explained the situation to you. It was a couple weeks after your birthday. He looked so damn sad, and he kept saying “This isn’t fair.” You were angry at anything that made him look like that, and surprised at the childish nature of the phrase. It came as a surprise to you that he could do the work that he does and still have any inclination for fairness. </p><p>The tone of voice when he kept on saying, all day, “They just <em> took </em> her,” is what made you furious. It activated something primal and protective and you had wanted to storm into headquarters and make ridiculous demands that no one would ever follow through on because you are a civilian who runs a bookstore. Apparently, you would do ridiculous things to keep this man from being hurt, which is a little silly because only one of you carries a gun on your hip. </p><p>Hotch comes over, holding an empty paper plate that’s smudged with grease. “Any pizza left?”</p><p>You look down at the pan you just removed from the oven. There are only two slices left. “I’ll put the next one in now,” you say. “Help yourself.”</p><p>Emily takes a slice after Hotch does, and Lyn darts over to examine the now-empty pan. She’s got on a bright orange sweater with a leering Jack-o-Lantern face on it, a change of pace from her usual dark clothing. She’s a big fan of Halloween. Her and Spencer have gone a little wild in their preparations for next weekend. “Morgan, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. I asked you to save me some.”</p><p>Penelope chimes in with something about how her man, “has only got one girl to look out for in this world, and <em> she’s </em> been taken care of,” and the three of them descend into light-hearted bickering. </p><p>You put a third pizza into Spencer’s oven, glad that you had prepared five before the party started. No one seems to mind that all the options are cheese or veggie. It’s pizza, who’s going to complain? Spencer made the dough, you made the sauce, and the only real debate had been over whether pineapple would be acceptable.</p><p>There’s a smile on Hotch’s face. You’re still adjusting to the way he seems to have some internal switch for social situations and business. You’ve seen him on TV a couple times, and in the office if you’ve dropped by to steal away Spencer (or Emily and Pen) for lunch, and he seems like a different person there. You know when you see people, and their mind is consumed with so many things at once that they can’t be there with you? Hotch is here right now, watching Lyn eat Morgan’s pizza. You doubt that anyone in this room is ever carefree, but some of them seem pretty close right about now. </p><p>“It’s Thursday,” he says to you.</p><p>“Yeah,” you say, almost guiltily.</p><p>“I’m sure Jack’s going to miss you at the library.”</p><p>“This was the only day that worked for everyone,” is all you say. And it's <em>actually</em> Spencer's birthday, which worked out well. Compromises have to be made, sometimes. But you haven’t missed a reading in a very long time. </p><p>Lyn seems to have successfully taken a slice of pizza from an FBI agent who literally trains other agents for combat. Derek Morgan is sulking about it, so she gives him the crust.</p><p>“He helped track down a murderous teenager a week ago, you know. And now... this. It feels like I’m babysitting children, at times.” Then he looks at you and seems like he might apologize, maybe because he remembers you’re younger than all of them. But you roll your eyes a little and hope he knows you take no offense. </p><p>“I’m glad they enjoy it enough to tussle about it. You just here waiting for the next one?”</p><p>“Yeah. Otherwise I’d be as far away as possible.” His tone is dry, but the over-the-top sigh and the way he checks his watch with an exaggerated impatience gives away the fact that he’s at ease right now. You think you would have been able to guess he’s a dad even if you didn’t know already. </p><p>JJ walks over, clearly in earshot. “Don’t listen to him, he knows good company when he sees it. This party is probably his first social outing in, what, weeks?” </p><p>You try to keep from smiling too wide when Hotch says, “You’re too generous, JJ.”</p><p>“I know. I’m being nice. I’m sure it’s been a month,” she says, filling her cup with water from the fridge. “Man, I miss the field. But I don’t miss dealing with the kids. That must have been rough.” She looks pensive, affected by this. It’s almost like she doesn’t believe some of her words.</p><p>“A teenager,” Hotch says.</p><p>“A kid.”</p><p>You bite the inside of your cheek. “Where were you guys? In Nebraska?” You’re asking as if the distance is going to change how you feel about the existence of people who are slitting throats before they’re even able to drive. </p><p>“Iowa, too,” JJ says. Hotch looks at her, surprised. “What? Emily forwards me the email chains. She knows I like to stay up to date.”</p><p> At first JJ asks him questions you never would have thought to bring up, sounding almost envious, but not quite. At first, Hotch’s tone is clipped and casual as he answers “in as much detail as he is able,” with a pointed look your way. And then, almost at once, they both appear to notice how every word pierces you. You’re not sure what gives it away, only that it does. You’re not good enough at controlling your expressions or micro-expressions or whatever you might need to control to keep members of the BAU from knowing that you’re fighting off a wave of fear that threatens to turn your limbs to ice.</p><p>Spencer probably tells you more specifics than he should these days, but you like that he trusts you. But his specifics are often centered around strange details, like the need to know the exact number of nursing homes in a town so they could figure out where an unsub lived. </p><p>You don’t often hear more than a sentence or two about taking one into custody. Or about if they don't make it into custody at all.</p><p>“Maybe we shouldn’t talk shop,” Hotch says.</p><p>JJ says, hurriedly, “We’re- the whole team is well trained in de-escalation. Spencer’s one of the best at it. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”</p><p>You nod. She believes this, truly. But you can find something to worry about in even the smallest of things, and his job is no small thing. “Yeah. Thanks, J. I know.”</p><p>“I came over to say I have to head out soon,” she says with a tight smile. </p><p>“Already? We still have to do cake, we could do that first-”</p><p>She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want you guys to rush it for me. I’m making the rounds, I know Garcia would have my head if I ever tried to Irish goodbye again.”</p><p>Hotch chuckles, and lifts his beer bottle to his lips. “Not after that Fourth of July weekend. That was a quiet week.”</p><p>JJ rolls her eyes at him and gives you a quick but strong hug. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. All of them are, you’ve found. You hug her back. “Thanks for coming,” you say.</p><p>“Anything for you two. Are you still free next Wednesday to babysit Henry?”</p><p>You nod. “Looking forward to it.”</p><p>Spencer comes over after JJ makes her goodbyes and leaves. “Thank you,” he says, putting an arm around you. He looks out at his apartment, no doubt taking in the mess of streamers and his friends. Lyn, as you have been informed, has the unfortunate tendency of asking the profilers of the team to analyze her, so Emily is stuck with that task right about now. You don’t envy her.</p><p>You have a suspicion that Rossi is talking about mozzarella again, and Hotch is listening with some reluctance, eyes still focused on the oven timer as it counts down the moments until the next pizza. Pen is taking more than a few photos of Derek holding Erwin, who looks like a kitten again in this man’s arms. “Thanks for putting this together.”</p><p>“Hey, it wasn’t just for you, Doctor. I love them all, too,” you say, and it’s true. They are no family like one you’ve ever known, but you can’t deny that’s what his team is. You barely know some of them, but family is family. Spencer kisses the side of your forehead, squeezes your shoulder. He gets your meaning well enough. </p><p>“I know you do. And I-”</p><p>The timer of the oven cuts him off, and you turn away to find the mitts so you can remove the last pizza. You place it onto the cooling rack with a clatter. “We’re doing cake after this one, so don’t take off your hat, okay, genius?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it, Chef.”</p><p>You wonder what he wishes for when he blows out the candles, with lights shining in his eyes and a wonderfully ridiculous hat on his head. That is, if he wishes for anything at all. He doesn’t seem like the type to believe in wishes, but then again, he believes in fairness.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi all! Sorry for not posting last week, I've been busy! I'll try and post next week as well, but it feels a little harder to flesh out these chapters (writing the group scene at the end was oddly tough). And ye, I know I sorta specified a birthday for the reader, but I think you can put it anywhere in the year and it doesn't change much. It's not my birthday either, I just like the idea of them celebrating back to back and having like a "birthday season".<br/>I'm torn between posting infrequently and writing shorter chapters,,, we'll see, lmk what you think! Hope everyone is safe and that you liked this addition. This is about to hit 600 kudos I think and that's ,,, astonishing, big thank you to everyone who reads this, I appreciate the support. I literally tear up at some of these comments, ty all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Halloween Candy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A continuation of Spencer's birthday, and how you spend your Halloween. content: mention of blood</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Robert Frost</b></p>
</blockquote><p>When his guests are gone, he is exhausted, the way so much socializing tends to do to a person. Birthday parties are a specific kind of spotlight. “I kind of like the streamers,” he says from the couch. Erwin purrs contentedly from his spot on Spencer’s chest. The cat’s eyes say <em> Don’t you dare move me. We’ve got to share him, you know. </em></p>
<p>“I like them too. Maybe we don’t have to take them down,” you say. Spencer lifts up his head so you can take your seat, and then he rests it on your lap. Your legs are propped up on a nearby ottoman, and Erwin’s eyes flash a thank you that also seems to indicate you’re on thin fucking ice. </p>
<p>“We’ll be all ready for next year.”</p>
<p>“We’re really going to get hit with birthdays and holidays and then a long stretch of nothing, huh?”</p>
<p>He smiles. “Not nothing.”</p>
<p>You hum your agreement. His hair is growing, and now it falls messily about his face again. You run your fingers through it absently. He is a comfortable place to you, at this point. In any room full of people you can’t breathe this deeply. </p>
<p>“The heart beats an average of seventy two times a minute,” he says, taking your hand. You think he might be feeling for your pulse. </p>
<p>“I’m alive, Spence,” you say, laughing.</p>
<p>“Oh, I know,” he replies, looking up at you. There’s a serious calm to his face, something approaching serenity. “I was just thinking out loud. Between now and my next birthday, my heart should beat approximately forty two million, seventy five thousand, nine hundred times.”</p>
<p>“Probably more, in your line of work. And all that coffee you drink.”</p>
<p>“Probably more,” he agrees. Being with him, like this, is like hearing your own heart beating, that time of night when you’re drifting off and all there is is your own proof of aliveness, if you listen hard enough. You are so content right now, it’s like you could fall asleep. His apartment smells like pizza, and there are some scattered cups that the two of you will have to clean tomorrow, and the whole scene makes your heart full. And he is here. He’s been away more and more, lately, and it makes you antsy. He can tell. </p>
<p>He is still looking up at you. You are not much of an artist, you don’t doodle the way he sometimes does, but you wish you knew how to draw. You wish you kept a sketchbook, if only so he could know how he looks to you. It wouldn’t be possible to capture on a camera, and there is just something to the process of sketching that seems like it would catch the way you feel about him, right here. “Do you get scared?”</p>
<p>You wonder if he is saying all this and checking your pulse so he knows when your own heart speeds up. You answer honestly. “Who wouldn’t? With your line of work.”</p>
<p>You are both quiet for a couple minutes, thinking your own thoughts, together.</p>
<p>“With JJ and Hotch, earlier, you seemed… concerned. They’re the two most likely to talk about work, and I want you to know there’s nothing to worry about.”</p>
<p>“Spence-”</p>
<p>He moves your hand to his chest. There it is, his heart, beatings its average seventy two times per minute. Although, really, you think it’s going a bit faster than that. </p>
<p>You sigh. “Is this the part where you tell me that your heart will keep beating? That you’ll get all the oxygen where it needs to go, remove the waste, whatever? Because, if it is- I just don’t think you can promise me that. It’s not that I don’t believe you mean it, but I don’t know if we should pretend that’s a promise anyone can make to another person. No one can keep it.”</p>
<p>“I know. I know.” His brow furrows. “But I want you to know that I do my best.” He has this way of running his fingers over your skin, sometimes. He touches you softly, not like he thinks you will break, but like he can’t quite believe you’re touchable. “But I’ve got to go. I’m really good at this. I love my work.”</p>
<p>“You have to go,” you repeat, nodding. It is fact, indisputable, nothing positive or negative about the words, just that they are the truth. He belongs at the BAU. This is not news to you. Spencer not doing what he lives for is not Spencer at all. “But you know I’m going to keep on worrying, too. I just don’t want us to ever make promises we can’t keep. I won’t promise to stop worrying, because I can’t.” At least you’re having this conversation.</p>
<p>He is very still. “What can I do, then? Can I help?”</p>
<p>“We don’t have to… pretend that your work isn’t dangerous. That’s not helping.”</p>
<p>He is thinking a million miles a minute with his head in your lap. You can almost feel it. “We could talk more about my cases when I come back. I know you don’t like hearing about details, but a basic rundown of each case, what goes right, what goes wrong-”</p>
<p>“Only what you can tell me,” you interrupt. “Don’t get into any trouble on my behalf.” Even as you say it, you have to repress a laugh.</p>
<p>He waves this away with a slightly wry lift of his eyebrows. “Please. I think we’re past that, don’t you? I’m not Hotch.” Then his expression becomes more serious. “I would never put you in danger, though. I just want to strike some balance, communicate effectively so that you worry only as much as you have to. You can better assess what I go through.”</p>
<p>“I just like knowing what’s going on with you. I think not avoiding thinking about it would be better.”</p>
<p>“Do you want to hear about our last case?”</p>
<p>You shake your head, try to lighten up. “Spence, it’s your birthday.”</p>
<p>He smiles. “Right.”</p>
<p>“Did you like your party?”</p>
<p>He kisses your wrist. “I know I said no gifts, but I think Emily got around that by getting Erwin some catnip.”</p>
<p>“Is this your way of asking for your gift?”</p>
<p>He bites his lip, looks up at you. “Maybe.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got to let me up, then.”</p>
<p>He appears to consider it. “Couldn’t you just tell me?”</p>
<p>“Where’s the fun in that? I could explain, but I think you’d like to listen to it.”</p>
<p>He cocks an eyebrow. “Listen? Sounds interesting.” But he doesn’t seem to want you to get up.</p>
<p>You take a deep breath and clear your throat a little bit. Your cheeks redden a little in anticipation… You don’t have this memorized, not by any means, but you spent so long trying to get that first line right. “‘No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine.’”</p>
<p>“An heroine,” he corrects reflexively. “Wait… what?”</p>
<p>You’re a little embarrassed. “It’s not much, really. I couldn’t think of what you’d really like, or use, but Derek told me that you don’t listen to much music on the jet. You read. And I don’t know if you’ll have any use for this, but… if you wanted to listen to something, I kind of recorded an audiobook for you.”</p>
<p>“Northanger Abbey?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I’ve seen it around. Not my favorite Austen, but… it’s a comedy and a romance, so I guess I can see why you might like it. It’s a lot slower than you’re used to, I know you could read that book in a matter of minutes and you’ve got it memorized but I guess I thought that you might appreciate some noise in case things ever get-”</p>
<p>He shushes you with your own name. “I have a very important question to ask.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Did you do British accents?”</p>
<p>You smack his shoulder. “No. Well, okay. Not consistently. When the urge struck me. I’m going to be honest, it isn’t very professional. I think there are parts where I’m giggling.”</p>
<p>“That sounds like the perfect thing to have on the jet. I miss you, you know.”</p>
<p>“You’d better.”</p>
<p>“It’ll be good to hear your voice.”</p>
<p>“I can download it to your phone later, so you’ve got it for your next flight.”</p>
<p>He pulls you in for a kiss, and his lips are soft. Sometimes he kisses like he’s got all the time in the world. He kisses like his phone isn’t about to go off and he might leave you for days or a week or longer. You know he doesn’t think of himself as very brave, but he kisses you like he isn’t afraid of anything. Or, if he was, that he wouldn’t let that stop him. </p>
<hr/>
<p>His next flight turns out to be a couple days later, just before Halloween. He calls from Detroit, just after they’ve arrived. It’s always jarring to start the day with him and get a call when you’re at work that he’s already hundreds of miles away. </p>
<p>You’re in the basement, something that also feels odd despite the months you’ve had to get used to it. It’s filled with Folio’s old inventory and Paul’s old desk. You’ve got your knit blanket, which is unravelling a little, and the old shitty coffee machine, but you haven't made it feel like it’s yours yet. You don’t know if you plan on doing that. </p>
<p>“How was the flight?” you ask. It’s a reflex, something you say now to silence the sigh that’s forming in you. </p>
<p>“It’s perfect,” Spencer says, not really an answer.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I listened to some of your tape on the plane. I feel like I get to hear the way you see this novel. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah? I’m glad.”</p>
<p>You hear someone in the background, dully, and then the sound of the phone being taken from your boyfriend as he half-heartedly protests. “This who I think it is?” Derek Morgan asks.</p>
<p>“Who do you think it is?”</p>
<p>“Damn, wrong one. I thought it was the other girl he’s dating.”</p>
<p>“Good of you to keep that a secret for him.”</p>
<p>“Seriously, though, I just wanted to say hi and let you know that <em> this one </em>grinned like an idiot the whole way over here. Make me one of those sexy voicemails?”</p>
<p>You laugh, then it sounds like Spencer has successfully wrestled his phone away from his coworker. “Ignore him. Please, dear god, ignore him. Why do I never get to bunk with Rossi?”</p>
<p>Something occurs to you. “Spence, the phantasmagoria reenactment. Are you going to miss it?”</p>
<p>He sighs. “Probably. I was really looking forward to it with you this year, they got new lights and everything. I think Lyn would go with you, if you can’t make it. The tickets are in my desk drawer, on the top left. ”</p>
<p>“She probably would, but catch the bad guy fast, okay?”</p>
<p>“I’ll give that a shot.”</p>
<p>“And be safe.”</p>
<p>“I always am.” You almost believe him. And then he’s got to go to the local police station, so you let him go. You sign off the call with “I miss you”, instead of the other three words that have made their home in your chest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Sunday, October 31</strong>
</p>
<p>“That. Sounds. <em> Awesome</em>.” </p>
<p>“He knew you would like it. They’re probably not going to be back today, and even if they finish up right now, there’s no way he could make it.” You stir the honey into your green tea, grateful that Lyn has decided to visit you at work. “I get out when we close.”</p>
<p>She rolls her eyes, drawing attention to the thick eyeliner shaped like bat wings. “Please. You could totally close up early. What kind of loser is buying books on Halloween night?”</p>
<p>She’s said this statement a little too loudly, and you see a nearby customer bristle. “We really value your business,” you tell the woman wearing fairy wings who’s browsing the books about foraging. You flick Lyn with the spoon. “It’s still early. I could close maybe an hour early, but I have a bowl of candy.”</p>
<p>“Close earlier, you’re the boss. Babe. Kids aren’t going to trick or treat at businesses. Especially not businesses where the previous owner is in prison.”</p>
<p>Paul’s trial was speedy and they didn’t even need to call you in, the man incriminated himself so badly. If he behaves well, he can get out after ten years. You don’t think he will. As far as you know, Jeffrey doesn’t visit. </p>
<p>“Can you be quiet, please? Don’t scare off the customers. We’re doing well. We did a good job fixing up the image of the store.” Edison bulbs aside, Jeff got the word out, and now Folio is a pretty respectable spot. Daniel Narula had to go off to college, but you’ve got a whole slew of new employees, including a barista you hired on Aidan’s recommendation.</p>
<p>“What time is the phantasmagoria? Because if it’s late, we could hit a couple parties first. And if it’s earlier, well, we could go to a couple parties after.”</p>
<p>“A couple?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. Your days of Lyn setting you up are behind you now (obviously), but she still has a tendency to reacquaint you with the porcelain of your toilet bowl after a night gets out of hand. You just can’t party as well as she does, which is kind of like saying you aren’t as flexible as an Olympic gymnast. No one expects it.</p>
<p>“I’ve been invited to four. Come on, it’ll be fun. You’re such a homebody now, and not even next door. Not that I’m complaining,” she says quickly. “If I had to listen to one more thing through that wall-”</p>
<p>“Oh, please, you were in Europe half the summer with Sarah, doing who knows what-”</p>
<p>“...I just never would have guessed that your doctor was capable of being that loud, I could practically hear him in Paris-”</p>
<p>You clear your throat pointedly. The middle-aged woman with a blue wig and fairy wings is holding a book about herbs. “I’m going to give you a holiday discount,” you say weakly. </p>
<hr/>
<p>So you go to a party in someone’s apartment with Lyn and you use Spencer’s tickets for the reenactment, which scares you more than you’d like to admit, but Lyn’s laughter gets you through it. You go to two more parties before the end of the night, and find you are getting better at holding your liquor, but you are still exhausted.</p>
<p>When you get back to the building, she gives you a funny look when she steps out of the elevator. </p>
<p>“Coming?” she asks. She’s dressed as a vampire, and gone all out for it. None of those cheap plastic sets of teeth that muffle your words and collect spit, no, she’s glued on some high-quality fangs and dressed in boots that make her tower over you. She’s collected a lot of phone numbers tonight.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to feed Erwin,” you say.</p>
<p>“Are you gonna stay there?”</p>
<p>“Maybe.”</p>
<p>“Do you sleep there even when he’s gone?” she asks, holding the doors open. </p>
<p>“Well, yeah. Why not?” And sometimes Spencer comes back and you hadn’t expected him to. Sometimes you are the one waking at odd hours when he kisses you on the cheek and gets under the covers. Once, he murmured to you, half-asleep, that he was looking forward to the first good sleep he’s had in a week. You told him the next morning that you heard, and he admitted he knew you were awake. He’s memorized the pattern of your breathing.</p>
<p>She’s smiling, and you can see the fake fangs she glued on for tonight with some dental fixing cream. “What?” you ask, giggling. </p>
<p>“Nothing. Nothing, babe. Have a nice night.”</p>
<p>“You too. Thanks for dragging me out. Love you.”</p>
<p>“I love you, too,” she says. “Tell the little man I love him too.”</p>
<p>It takes a couple tries to get your key to Spencer’s apartment into the lock, and then you hit the light switch. Then it takes you a few seconds to figure out what feels off.</p>
<p>You enter the apartment and kick off your shoes. You can’t wait to wipe the makeup off of your face. Already, you’re tallying the list of things you’ve got to do tomorrow. Jeff wants to meet on the first of every month and discuss how the place is doing, and the further changes that can be made. And before <em> that </em> meeting, you think you might have to go in early and help out your new cashier-slash-barista. It’s going to be the day after Halloween, and you have a sneaking suspicion that the coffee shops are going to be filled with hungover people who don’t really want to wait in line too long for that extra shot of espresso. This is where the new espresso machine really pulls its weight. Plus, you can leave out a bowl with the leftover candy. </p>
<p>And then you realize that Erwin isn’t rubbing his forehead against your calves and simultaneously pretending to hate you. You realize this as you are scooping his food out of the vacuum sealed bin. Usually, if he isn’t on you already, then the sound of dry food hitting the ceramic bowl has him racing over.</p>
<p>“Tiny doctor?” you call out. Nothing. </p>
<p>“Erwin?” you say again, standing up. You’re beginning to feel like the idiotic girl in the horror movies you refuse to watch. The reenactment of the phantasmagoria spooked you more than you’d like to admit.</p>
<p>You set the bowl of food down in its usual place next to the water bowl. “Erwin?” you call out again. This time, you hear a soft, nearly inaudible <em> mew</em>. It reminds you of when he was a kitten. It’s near his litter box by Spencer’s bathroom. </p>
<p>The black cat is laying down next to his litter box and there’s blood visible in the pale pellets. The words “Oh, baby,” come out of your mouth all on their own. </p>
<p>You hesitantly reach out to pet him, worried he might bat your hand away or try to bite. But he looks at you with those expressive eyes. The message in them is obvious. </p>
<p>
  <em> Help. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I might go back in and make some minor edits to this chapter depending on what I decide about the plot going forwards, but I realized I haven't written a lil cliffhanger in a while. Hope u enjoyed the convo with Spencer at the beginning, I definitely wanted a realistic back and forth about fears bc I love healthy discussions in a relationship. From this point on, we're kinda flying by the seat of our pants. All I know is I won't be able to post next Monday because I have to Do Things, but I'll see y'all back here in a couple weeks xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Hot Broth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You go to the animal hospital, you get a cold, Jeffrey asks for your help.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>“Your body is away from me,<br/>
but there is a window open<br/>
from my heart to yours.”<br/>
― <span class="authorOrTitle">Rumi</span></strong>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Your voice is quiet as you whisper into the phone. “Pick up, pick up. <em> Please</em>.” You don’t know why you picked up the phone, except that your heart is hammering in your chest and you need the smartest person you’ve ever met to help you out here.</p><p>You’re not doing nothing, as you hear the ringing, as though distant. Your body is on autopilot and it moves about the dimly lit apartment. You get Erwin’s carrier from its place in the coat closet, place a blanket in there. You fill a bottle with water, grab the extra set of keys off their place on the hook. Spencer’s car is in the garage. They are cold in your hand. You’re in no state to drive. A cab, then. </p><p>The ringing stops. You get his voicemail, light but awkward in the way he is clearly remembering a script. It’s different from his work phone, where there’s no attempt at warmth. He doesn’t have this on him, then. It’s four in the morning, and he would have picked up even sleeping. <em> He’s busy, fine, </em>you think, and you move on to the next task.</p><p>“Hi, bud,” you say gently. Erwin is crouched in the litter box looking small and forlorn. He is not the nicest animal; he is the reason you have to safeguard your mugs and why Spencer gave up on keeping a vase of flowers on the counter. He likes Spencer much more than he likes you, but the fact that Erwin tolerates you and finds you a comforting place to rest sometimes is enough. It is more than enough. He is an angry little man, and that makes him a good cat. </p><p>You’re scared, and he is too. You lift him, gently, slowly, from the litter box, and place him in the carrier with minimal hissing.</p><p> You call a cab service, and as you wait for them to pick up, you take the elevator downstairs. If you take the stairs, you might run, and you don’t want to jostle him.</p><p>Lyn has not even taken her makeup off yet. She doesn’t question you and the carrier, only sees the expression on your face and says, “Give me a minute, let me grab my jacket.” She is lovely that way.</p><p>There is a 24 hour emergency animal hospital thirty minutes away. You and Lyn pile into a cab, she hands the driver a bill you don’t catch a very good glimpse of, and she asks him to make it twenty. </p>
<hr/><p>The first thing they assume when you bring a black cat into an emergency animal hospital on Halloween, the two of you both still dressed head to toe in black, is that you’ve had a change of heart about sacrificing it for some sort of terrible ritual. It takes a little while to disabuse the receptionist at the front desk of this notion, especially with Lyn looking the way she does. </p><p>“No, we just came back from some parties. I’ve had him for… eight months, he doesn’t leave the apartment, I love him <em> I swear</em>. I just- I just got home tonight and something was wrong. There was blood in the litter box. Can you just- can you <em> please</em>...” Here, you run out of words. Tears well up in your eyes. The boy working the desk seems alarmed at this, and nods. </p><p>“We’ll have someone out in a few minutes.” He hands you a clipboard. </p><p>The breath you let out is shaky. “Thanks.”</p><p>You have all the information you need for the paperwork. It feels strange to be the one filling this out; Spencer has come to most of Erwin’s vet appointments, and he’s faster at this than you. Though (and you <em> almost </em> smile at this) the vets normally have a difficult time reading his handwriting. It is a skill you’ve had to develop over the past few months, yourself. </p><p>“I’m sure he’s going to be fine,” Lyn says, peering into the crate on her lap, though you can’t tell if she believes it. She’s saying what people have to say in this sort of situation.</p><p>“Yeah,” you reply absently, listening to the scraping of the plastic pen on the clipboard. It is one of those pens that perpetually seems to be out of ink. It’s like it doesn’t want you to be able to finish writing. You feel dread rising in your chest. <em> Nothing is going right, </em> you think desperately, with a horribly familiar feeling of hopelessness welling up in you. It is the kind that is going to stay with you for days, you think. Right now, you can’t imagine ever escaping it. You take a deep breath. The pen bleeds onto the paper, <em> finally,</em> but when you go to write the date, it gives up again.</p><p>Your phone buzzes in your bag. You flip it open, not even bothering to check the caller ID. “Spencer?”</p><p>He sounds tired. “What’s wrong? You called, but didn’t leave a message- are you okay? Is everything-”</p><p>“I didn’t have time to leave a message. It’s Erwin, he’s- I don’t know. I’m at the animal hospital right now.” Even as you’re speaking, the door leading beyond the waiting area opens, and a young woman gestures for you to come over. Lyn stands. “I have to go, sorry.”</p><p>Spencer curses, sounds worried. “Can you describe his symptoms-”</p><p>“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I know more.” You hesitate. “Why didn’t you… How’s the case?”</p><p>“Just finished,” he says tersely. </p><p>“Okay. I have to go,” you repeat. They are the type of words that taste acrid on your tongue when you use them too often. </p><p>“Alright,” he says worriedly, and you hang up the phone. </p><p>Somehow, it is the in-between moments in life that feel more real than moments like the nice, too-young vet talking to you about feline idiopathic cystitis. It’s the stillness of the cab ride back to your apartment, the way the air is too cold but the sun is rising, that stays with you more than the news that they’re keeping Erwin overnight for more tests, “just in case”. You keep thinking of that blue pen and the way your letters on the forms were disjointed, stumbling over the page. <em> I should have kept it. I should have thrown it away. Then they’d have to replace the damn thing. </em></p><p>Lyn seems genuinely unworried, which gives you some cause to feel better. “My parents had cats when I was little. This is pretty common, actually, ‘specially in young ones. It’s a fancy way to say he’s got a UTI, I think. He’ll be alright, and if they catch anything with those tests, it’ll be early. You did perfect, babe.” </p><p>“Thanks,” you say, for lack of anything better, and slump on her shoulder as you watch the sky turn pink with a new day. “I just don’t know if the vet had to flirt with you that much.”</p><p>“I just can’t turn it off,” she says. “I’m irresistible.” </p><p>Lyn half-carries you out of the cab, and you fall asleep almost as soon as you get back to your own apartment; it is a restless sort of slumber, as though your body is unused to your own sheets or the fresh autumn light creeping into this room.</p><p>You are, for some reason, anticipating anger when Spencer wakes you the next morning. For you, dread comes with hot outbursts and misplaced emotions. The realization that he is stepping through your door comes with an <em> oh shit </em> moment that signals you’ve forgotten to do something important. </p><p>You know yourself, and you’re waiting to see yourself lash out, for some form of annoyance to bubble up in both you and in him. You expect to have to hold it back, or to have a fight, but you find you’re too tired for it. </p><p>Spencer feels your forehead, and you think, <em> Oh. </em> There is a tenderness to the movement that grounds you, a concern in him that lifts your spirits. You feel stupid for having expected the worst. You exhale slowly, and feel some resistance in your lungs. </p><p>“Good morning,” you mumble, still half-asleep, hair a mess. He smells like the stale air of an airplane, but you have become used to it. </p><p>“You have a fever,” he says. “And you didn’t lock your door.”</p><p>“Erwin-”</p><p>“I called the animal hospital in the car back. They filled me in. You know, just because I don’t have a key to your place doesn’t mean you should just leave the door unlocked. Crime rates in this area are good, but they’re not <em> that </em> good.” </p><p>“I should have noticed something was wrong with him,” you say, putting words to the shame you felt in the cab ride back the night before. </p><p>He stands, half-smiling. “That’s ridiculous.” It borders on rude. </p><p>You assume he means that you couldn’t possibly notice something he never saw.</p><p>“Why? I’m there more,” you say. You start to sit up. It feels like there’s a weight on your chest. </p><p>“That isn’t fair.”</p><p>There it is again, that fairness of his. You’re unfamiliar with law enforcement who believes in nonsense like that. “I am. I’m with him more. That’s how it is. This is on me.”</p><p>“This isn’t <em> on </em> anybody, you know that, right? He’s a young cat, and we couldn’t have prevented this. It’s a minor infection. I don’t want you to feel like you’re overreacting, but- love, with a little prescription food, he’s going to be <em> fine</em>.” Spencer says this with all of the confidence of someone who knows what is going on, so you’re inclined to believe him. But you still feel the remnants of dread, and even recalling the feeling of knowing something could go so wrong makes you nauseous.</p><p>He starts to leave the room. “Where are you going?” you mumble from the bed.</p><p>“I’m going to make you some tea and call Jeffrey and tell him to run his own store today. You’re sick. I’m no <em> medical </em> doctor, but cutting your immune system off at the knees with alcohol and sleep deprivation isn’t good for you.”</p><p>You take in a breath to argue that you <em> can </em> go into work and it isn’t his call to make, but the sheer difficulty in doing so stops you. You close your eyes and listen to him mutter to himself about going to medical school just to shut you up while he puts your kettle on the stove. </p>
<hr/><p>He shakes you gently, the fingers of his left hand curling around your shoulder and lingering there, although you hadn’t been asleep. Just taking a moment to rest. You’re <em> not </em> sick. “You have to eat something,” he says. </p><p>You groan in response, but something does smell good. You open one eye and see him holding a tray with a mug of black tea and a bowl with steam curling tantalizingly upwards.</p><p>“I made this with some frozen stock and veggies. The fridge is looking sparse. You’ve hardly got anything here anymore,” he informs you. </p><p>“What I’ve got is a pounding headache.”</p><p>“Is it a hangover or dehydration?”</p><p>“Lack of caffeine, probably.” </p><p>“Increased blood flow to the brain,” he explains apologetically.</p><p>The soup is good and hearty, made with frozen vegetables and some noodles from your pantry. You sit up and eat it while he pretends to read a used copy of one of those <em> Twilight </em> books that came out a few years ago. You can tell he’s only pretending because he isn’t telling you anything about the history of the vampire myth, or trying to point out inaccuracies. You kind of wish he would, just so you could say the phrase that genuinely annoys him the most, that not everything needs to be accurate.  </p><p>You’re also pretty sure Spencer doesn’t even know what the <em> Twilight </em> series is, only that you are in possession of books he’s never read before. In fact, your apartment is filled with old books from the store now that Jeffrey has offloaded a lot of the old inventory. You’re here a lot less, so what does it matter? You plan on donating most of them, but for now the stacks of novels are a reassuring presence.</p><p>“You need to lock your door,” he tells you seriously. These words come after one particularly loud slurping noise. The soup is fantastic.</p><p>You hunt down an evasive carrot with your spoon. “I almost always do. I must have just been really tired last night.” </p><p>“Seriously, do you know how dangerous it could be?” </p><p>You continue to slurp at the broth as Spencer rattles off a list of sufficiently terrifying statistics. You feel a little guilty at the fact that you’re tuning him out, but it’s nothing you didn’t already know. What he’s read in reports doesn’t really compare to the fact that you’ve lived a couple decades as a woman.</p><p>“And it’s almost always the spouse, Spence, so unless <em> you’re </em> the one who’s going to burst in here and kill me, I think we can agree it was just a mistake. It won’t happen again.” He flushes. “Why didn’t you pick up last night?”</p><p>“I was… busy with the case.”</p><p>“Yeah, uh, no kidding. I mean, what was going on?”</p><p>He is quiet. You wonder if he will pretend to read <em> Eclipse </em> again just to avoid answering. </p><p>“Look, if you don’t want to tell me because it’s top secret stuff, that’s fine. I feel like I’ve made it clear I don’t want to push you outside of your comfort zone there. But if you don’t want to tell me because you know I’ll worry, just know that my imagination might come up with something ten times worse.”</p><p>His tongue flicks over his lips hesitantly. “Worse than someone who burns his victims alive?” You don’t say anything, just let him keep going. “He waited every year. Every Devil’s Night. And he targeted the people he felt were responsible for his accident and he… watched them die. My phone was at the motel when we went to talk him down from killing his ex and her family. I didn’t see it until we got back to get on the jet.” He looks up at you, and it feels like he is asking for forgiveness. “Fire is a slow, terrible death. I think there are few things worse than going that way, except maybe watching it. Would you have come up with something worse than that?”</p><p>You look at the carrots in your soup. “No, probably not. Fuck, Spence.”</p><p>He shakes his head, as if to lose the image, but you know he can’t. “Yeah.”</p><p>“I’m glad you’re okay.” The realization is a warm one, hot and revitalizing the way that food prepared by someone you love warms your whole body. “You’re okay?” </p><p>He holds his arms out as if to show you there are no visible injuries. “I told you I’d come back.”</p><p>And talking helps. You ask your questions now and then, but mostly you listen, and you feel armed with your new knowledge. You notice something, too. It is something fairly obvious.</p><p>He likes talking.</p><p>Often, when Spencer returns from a case and does not tell you about it, there is something about him, an unnatural stillness. It can last anywhere from an hour to a few days. </p><p>You have always assumed it was a sort of mourning and sadness. After all, how do you go back to life? How are you just dropped in by a private jet to a place where you live and just pretend that the miles have erased the problems you saw back there? And you gave him space, and you worried in the too-loud silence.</p><p>Now, though- now he speaks and you realize he has been wanting to talk to you all along about this part of his life. The biggest part of his life. His hands flutter as he tells you about the probability of waking up from a months-long coma. About the likelihood of arsonists being one of the first responders. He talks to you from the kitchen as he goes to make you another cup of tea, and you find yourself sitting up to listen. You do not like the few glimpses of crime scene photos you’ve happened upon, or the particularly grisly details. You don’t like hearing about the local police and the way they treat him, but… you don’t mind seeing him like this. </p><p>He seems more alive than usual, discussing the thing that interests him most in the world. That other stillness and silence, you realize now, was the same one that comes right after someone cuts him off. He was anticipating it, expecting you to pretend his world doesn’t exist. Even now, when you feel so comfortable together, there are things that go unsaid and wrongly assumed. </p><p>“How much of this am I not supposed to know?” you ask him. “Just so I don’t say anything in front of Hotch.”</p><p>He bites his lip. “Most of it. Going forward, let’s just say that you’re only aware of the locations we go to. Say you don’t want to know the rest.”</p><p>You nod. “Got it.” And there is something in this, too, that feels beautiful, this agreement that the two of you are carrying a secret together. It helps to know this. All of this helps, somewhat, alleviate the burning that comes with the fact that he was not here when you needed him. </p><p>When Spencer gets a call in the afternoon, though, you still flinch. He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes cut to you. “It’s not my work phone,” he reassures you.</p><p>You hum in a way you hope is noncommittal. And when he gets off the phone, you have to really plead your case to get him to agree to let you go with him to the animal hospital. “If I’m just run down like you said, it isn’t contagious, right? You don’t seem worried,” you say, nodding at the scarcity of space between the two of you. If you were contagious, you’re pretty sure Spence would be outfitted in a hazmat suit. “I’ll stay in the car,” you say, making your eyes wide. It works.</p><p>“Fine, only if… Will you drive?” he asks.</p><p>And you are a team, picking up the slack when the other needs you to. Balance. </p><p>And Spencer is right about this; Erwin is fine, just a little distressed from his overnight trip and resentful of being placed in the carrier. Spencer speaks to him in soothing tones on the car ride back.</p><p>Your hands are tight on the wheel. “And you’re sure that the vet knows what she was talking about? </p><p>“She kept calling him Ernest, but yeah. I trust her. I might look into feline urinary tract diseases, if that would make you feel better,” he hedges.  </p><p>“It would. I remember her saying stress was probably a factor-” You beep at some asshole in a Jeep who has decided to very slowly drift into the left lane. “It’s always a Jeep, isn’t it?” And so you forget to finish telling Spencer <em> you </em> haven’t been more stressed than usual, and you don’t get around to asking him. It seems like one of those things where he would bring it up, anyways. Wouldn’t he?</p><p>After dinner, you see the cat in your spot on the couch. You consider letting him stay there, undisturbed, then think better of it. Best not to let him get too smug so quickly. When you shove him aside (gently, gently) he does not complain. He sits on your lap and you fall asleep to the sound of the TV in the background. Apparently, resting helps. Having someone take care of you cuts the usual run-time of your cold in half. </p><p>Jeffrey calls you the next morning, not pleased that you took the day off, but he can hardly complain.</p><p>“I almost missed an important meeting just because your <em> boyfriend </em> decided he wanted to keep you home.” The way he says boyfriend is derisive, as if he’s trying to tease you by stating a fact. </p><p>“I was sick,” is all you say, not attaching a single note of apology to the words. You stir your iced coffee lazily, eyes fixed on Erwin, as though burning holes in him with your eyes will make him eat the prescription food necessary. The vet said stress might have been a cause of it, so you should maybe stop looking at him so intently.</p><p>“Are you okay?” he asks, and his voice goes serious with concern. </p><p>You laugh, a little touched. “Yeah, Jeff, I’ll be fine. Nothing a little rest didn’t fix.”</p><p>“And you can make it in this afternoon, right? Take the day if you need to, but I was hoping to talk to you about something.” He sounds stressed.</p><p>“Sure, I’ll be in later. See you then,” you say, and hang up without waiting for a reply. It feels nice. You see Spencer’s face twist into an expression bordering on disappointment as he straightens his tie, and stick your tongue out at him. He hasn’t taken a sick day in years, probably. </p><p>“I think you should stay in today,” he says. “I think some more sleep would do you good.”</p><p>“You’re such a hypocrite,” you say, smiling. “A couple weeks ago I’m pretty sure you had the flu, and nothing could convince you to call out. Seemed like a bad headache, too.” </p><p>He bends down to scratch Erwin behind the ears, and you can’t see his face. You take another sip of your coffee. Spencer made it sweet today, sweeter than you usually take it, but you don’t mind. He says, “Yeah. It was. I’m fine.”</p><p>His words are clipped. You wait, leaving silence, so he can say more if he wants to, but he doesn’t. When he leaves for work a few minutes later, his kiss goodbye lasts a little longer than usual. He kisses a little harder. You don’t notice this, not yet. You think of it later, weeks down the line. Right now, it is just a nice kiss. </p><p>He goes to work and in his apartment you fuss over Erwin, get some writing done, and then you take the train to work alone, listening to songs that remind you of Spencer and of the past, songs that remind you of people you don’t see anymore and might not ever see again. You listen to music that will eventually, later, remind you of this day. </p><p>You say hello to the new girl Jeff hired, who’s shelving a new Grisham mystery that you just know Lenny is going to love. He doesn’t come in as frequently as he used to, with all the changes.</p><p>Jeff taps your shoulder as you’re unlocking the door to the basement. “Hey,” he says, a nervousness about him you aren’t used to. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” </p><p>“Sure,” you say, turning the key in the lock. </p><p>He follows you downstairs, and when you turn on the light at your desk, you see his nose wrinkle in distaste. The basement has become a space all your own, but the smell of glue won’t fade no matter how many candles you burn. You barely notice it anymore. </p><p>Jeff has, in his hands, a manila folder. This is not unusual in the slightest. He often carries folders of documents around the store, as if to remind you and the other workers that this isn’t his main gig.</p><p>To your surprise, he opens the folder and slides it across your cluttered desk. You open your mouth to tell him he’s being rather dramatic today, but then you see the photos inside, grainy black and white stills of what looks like security camera footage of the store you’re currently standing in. There’s Jeffrey at the register and a slight, small woman, standing with her arms crossed. </p><p>“Do you recognize this woman?” he asks, urgency wound up tightly with his words.</p><p>You don’t answer him. “We have security cameras? Where? When did this happen?” </p><p>“I got them installed a couple of weeks ago. You’re the one who told me the register has been a little short lately.”</p><p>“And you didn’t tell me? <em> Where are they? </em>” Your eyes flit to the corners of your office. This invasion of privacy picks at an old wound, one you thought would have healed by now. </p><p>“Just at the register,” Jeff says dismissively, and he paces, his footsteps echoing in the space. He says, “She came in yesterday asking about my father. He promised her something before his arrest.”</p><p>You can’t help but ask- “What was it?”</p><p>He throws up his hands, exasperated. Only now do you notice that he is not his usual self, the carefully preened hair all unkempt, his gray eyes wild. “I didn’t ask! I told her to get the fuck out.”</p><p>A small chuckle escapes you, only because you’ve never seen him this disheveled. “Why?”</p><p>“<em>Why? </em>What the hell are you saying? I don’t want anything to do with Dad’s- with the old business. I didn’t want to know what she needed or how much she paid to get it.”</p><p>The two of you say the words at the same time, and only your tone is light. “Plausible deniability.”</p><p>He nods. “So. Do you recognize her?”</p><p>You take a closer look at the blurry photographs. Jeffrey is of average height, and this person stands nearly a foot shorter than him. She’s got choppy dark hair, cut close to her skull, like she did it herself without a mirror. Her fair skin is dotted with freckles, and she’s got on a pair of large, tinted glasses. “Never seen her before. What’s her name?”</p><p>Jeffrey Winter murmurs something unintelligible that sounds sort of like Erwin spitting up a hairball. You take this to mean he didn’t ask. </p><p>You say, “Well, I don’t know who she is.”</p><p>“What do we do?”</p><p>We? “Why don’t <em> you </em> go to the police?”</p><p>You are finding this scenario oddly humorous, as if you have a chance to correct a past mistake- and then an unfamiliar look takes over the lawyer’s features. Guilt. “The leniency of Dad’s sentence rests on him having confessed to all of his crimes. I know I should go to the cops, but… who am I kidding? He’s my father. I’m not going to extend his sentence. It was hard enough testifying.”</p><p>You think for a moment. “Okay, look, we don’t have any more passports. You should have just said we don’t have whatever she wanted. It’s out of our hands.”</p><p>“That’s the thing. I told her the cops took everything. She says that what she came for- it’s still here.” </p><p>“No way. I practically took this place apart with my bare hands during the remodel. I would have seen something. Look, if she comes back, just offer to give her money back. I know you can afford it. I won't go to the cops.” </p><p>Jeffrey looks like he might say something else, then nods. “By the way, you were right about the espresso machine being a good thing for foot traffic. Thanks.” He leaves the photos on your desk and goes upstairs.</p><p>Jeff admitting that you’re right feels more bizarre than any other aspect of this scenario, and you’re left thinking about it the rest of the day, more so than the short woman looking for something she probably won’t ever find. You refuse to get wrapped up in this again. You mention it, offhandedly, to Spencer, who thinks as little of it as you do. A few of Paul's stragglers are probably to be expected.</p><p>Life goes on. Spencer gets called away again and again. He keeps coming back, like he promised. He continues to keep this impossible promise, and you keep asking him questions about his cases. You think of asking Spencer how cops in these towns, in <em>any</em> town treat Derek, but you don’t. You almost ask Emily a few times if she feels comfortable being alone in the room with them, but decide knowing this wouldn't change anything for her. You cannot help thinking that maybe Spencer doesn’t see it, that he doesn’t have to. That some of it is easy to ignore, if you don’t know what to look for. But Jeff putting that camera up, watching without asking- it makes you uneasy, and brings up old worries.</p><p>If Spencer ever notices you steer the conversation away from his talk of law enforcement, he doesn’t say anything. You much prefer hearing about the way his mind works than the way some cop who only took up the badge because he’s got a power complex refused to listen. </p><p>Still. All the talking in the world will not fix the fact that he is not always here, and that he wasn’t there when your eyes were clouded with panic and tears. He is often away, even if he keeps returning to the home you’re making. That's the deal. You think you are past it. You have to. But thinking this is different from feeling it. Knowing one thing cannot prevent us from feeling another. Which is for the best, you come to find out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A note to anyone who might catch this error- I got the timeline wrong! I rewatched this episode recently and it turns out the BAU *was* back in time for Halloween. In my fic, no they weren’t. </p><p>Apologies for taking ages to get this one out! Don't worry, I felt super guilty the whole time. I'm not abandoning this fic- I was working on it, then my laptop broke, and then, midterms. I'm planning to update 2 weeks from now! ty all for supporting Erwin (my roommate told me if I killed him they would stop reading)</p><p>EDIT: hi wait if you're reading this and planning on commenting PLEASE tell me to write my midterm paper. 80% of the reason i updated was procrastination. it is due so soon and i have done so little</p><p>EDIT 5/5/21: i finished my paper like the day after uploading this lol i got an A- which is decent considering i did it in an afternoon. thanks all! so sorry about the lack of updates but it is taking e v e r y t h i n g in me to do my base amount of schoolwork, hopefully when the semester ends i will want to work on this more! i appreciate all the nice comments more than u know xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>